


cut ties with all the lies

by LoveLetter



Category: Shameless (TV), Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-03 13:59:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 35,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveLetter/pseuds/LoveLetter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When he and Ian are finally alone, the redhead sucks in a deep breath and raises a shaky hand to his face. Mickey fights the instinct to flinch and lets him ghost his fingers across the battered skin. And if he leans into the touch it’s only because he’s too weak, and too tired to force himself not to need Ian."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set between 3.06 and 3.07, not canon compliant.

Mickey wants to disappear into thin air.

The gentle sound of bullet shells hitting the dirt, drown in the overpowering echo of the shots being fired. One after another, each shot screaming painfully into the air. Mickey feels his hands burning against the gun as he holds it tightly. He wants to feel it melt into his palms so that it will never leave his hand again. He wants it to seep into him like an extra limb, threatening and sure.

Footsteps sound behind him and he doesn’t bother to look up. He knows who it is. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Mickey’s voice is rough from lack of use. His words are hollow, ringing in the air long after the gunshots that riddle the empty space. His heart beats in time with each click of the gun as he stares straight ahead, firing shot after shot methodically. 

“I haven’t seen you in two days and that’s all you have to say to me?” Ian wonders, squaring his shoulders with false confidence. Ian did that a lot, tried to seem tougher than he actually was. He fooled a lot of people, his size and build deceiving. But he never fooled Mickey. 

“You really shouldn’t be here,” Mickey clarifies harshly. His fingers are visibly shaking as he reloads the gun and he hates himself for having such a physical reaction to Ian. He wants to punch a fucking wall until his hands fall limp and they can never shake again. There’s a weakness in the visceral reaction that Mickey isn’t ready to accept. 

“Don’t do this Mickey,” Ian punctuates. The look in his eye is more tired than pleading, but there’s a desperation there that doesn’t go unnoticed. 

Mickey ignores him in favor of pulling the trigger three more times in succession. He can see Ian’s worried glance in his peripheral vision and a wave of nausea hits him all at once. Suddenly he feels like he’s back on that couch, suffocating in pussy, watching Ian shudder with pain. It hits him hard and fast because he never wanted to be there again, on that couch drowning in that agony. 

“Mickey! Don’t, fucking do this. Please…” he begs, letting his composure slip and touching Mickey’s shoulder. 

“Don't do what?” Mickey snaps, turning around and shoving Ian away. For days now he has been running and running, and running. Standing stock still with a gun in his hand, he’s still running.

It’s the heat of Ian’s touch that makes him stop. The heavy burn seeps through his skin and buries itself in his veins. His fingers itch to dig at the skin and claw Gallagher from his system. It would be so much fucking easier if he could just get him out. 

“Don’t push me away,” he swallows. His voice is unwavering and Mickey feels an unexpected surge of pride because if nothing else Ian is brave. He admires him because without the tattoos, without the guns and bats, Mickey knows that he’s a coward. He’s a liar and a coward, and Ian is more than that. There’s an ache in Mickey’s heart when he thinks about how much more Ian is. 

“Fuck off,” Mickey sighs tiredly. 

“I can’t do that,” Ian says looking down. He’s quiet for a moment and Mickey looks at him once again. He chokes on air as the pink of Ian’s cheeks flush like paint smudges against his light skin. Mickey wants to touch him so bad it hurts. 

“Why the fuck not Gallagher?” he challenges. If anyone has the balls to say it out lout its Ian. Part of Mickey is terrified of the words bubbling just beneath the surface, but part of him craves the release. 

“You know why,” Ian sniffs, looking up and meeting Mickey’s gaze. It was the first time that they had looked each other in the eye since Mickey had flipped the Russian woman over and fucked her blindly. It hurt so fucking much that Mickey almost has to shoot himself in the foot just to feel a different kind of pain, a better kind of pain. “You fucking know why Mick,” he continues emotionally. 

“And you know why you shouldn’t be here but that hasn’t stopped you now has it? I guess knowing and doing are two different things asshole,” he mutters sourly. It pisses him off that Ian can get under his skin just with bullshit allusions and offhanded nicknames. 

“What are you gonna do?” he asks.

“What do you mean what am I gonna do?” Mickey shrugs, doing his best to look unaffected and failing miserably. He had always been a master at hiding his emotions, but he was tired. He was so fucking tired. 

“Are you gonna tell me we’re over? You gonna get yourself arrested? What’s the plan this time Mickey?” Ian bites out bitterly. 

“Fuck you,” Mickey spits, the familiar phrase rattling his teeth. 

“You know where I stand! You always know where I stand,” Ian raises his voice. The anger inside of him has been brewing for days and he was past the point of control. “I care about you and I wanna be with you, and maybe I’m a fucking fag for feeling that way. But I don’t care, okay? I don’t fucking care,” he growls. 

“Maybe you should care!” Mickey yells back. “You think I’m the one who’s gonna end up dead? It’s gonna be you Ian!” The red head bristles at the sound of his name on Mickey’s lips. The anger in his bones deflates and he finds himself unable to catch his breath.

“We’ll figure something out…” he exhales. 

“Do you live in a fantasy land? My father is not going to let this go. He’s going to have me under lock and fucking key and he’s going to have you under six feet of dirt if he sees you anywhere near me,” Mickey explains, jabbing his finger into Ian’s chest until the redhead grabs his hand and holds it tightly. 

“We can figure something out,” Ian insists stubbornly. 

“He will kill you,” Mickey grinds out. He tries to ignore the hold Ian has on his hand but the grip is the only thing keeping his feet on the ground. 

“No he won’t,” he argues weakly. 

“Are you stupid? He has never walked in on another guy with their dick up my ass. He blames you, and he’s fucking right. It’s your fault Gallagher. This never would have happened if it wasn’t for you. I never would have let this happen.” Mickey shakes his head, breathing erratic. His hand has gone limp in Ian’s as it presses against the taller boy’s chest. The rise and fall of Ian's chest lulls him into a reluctant sense of calm.

“I know you care about me Mickey,” Ian whispers. He says it like it’s a secret, and maybe it is. Maybe it always would be.

“Shut the fuck up,” he snaps habitually.

“Fine, don’t admit it. Just don’t walk away. Up until your father walked in on us things were good. Things were really fucking good.” Ian squeezes his hand firmly. 

“Good enough to risk your life over?” Mickey scoffs.

“Maybe,” Ian says, lifting his chin defiantly. 

“You’re a fucking idiot,” he sighs, almost affectionately. He can’t help the swelling in his chest or the twitch of his lips, and he fucking hates it.

“I’ve put my ass on the line over a lot less Mick.” Ian chances a brief smile and Mickey wants to grab him by the neck and shake him until he understands how dangerous this is; the fucking, the kissing, and especially the smiling. All of it has lead them to this point and all of it was gonna get them both killed.

“Like I said, you’re a fucking idiot,” Mickey grunts, biting his lip and fighting the urge to smile back. He wants to ring his own fucking neck for being just as stupid as Gallagher. 

“Just tell me that you still want this. Tell me this isn’t over, and we’ll figure something out,” he pleads hopefully. 

“Jesus Christ,” Mickey sighs, finally pulling his hand away. “You’re a stubborn fuck.” 

Ian's smirk is unapologetic when he finally says, “Gallagher flaw.” 

“Whatever. You just need to keep your stupid head down for a while. Do you understand me? I’ll take care of my old man, you just try to keep yourself alive,” Mickey eventually relents. 

“What does that mean?” he pushes.

“It means don’t fucking die!” he bites out impatiently. “And stay the fuck away from me,” he adds.

“Mickey…” Ian swallows, his throat bobbing noticeably. 

“I’ll find you. When it’s taken care of I’ll find you,” his voice is quiet and steady, but he knows that Ian can still hear the promise in his words. He can still hear the plea for him to wait.

“Fine,” he agrees. 

“Okay. Fuck.” Mickey rubs his eyes and says, “Look, just so you know, what happened with that girl…” 

“You don’t have to explain,” Ian whispers, looking away slightly and fighting off the images that have been haunting him for days.

Mickey isn’t good at comfort or affection, he isn’t good at feelings. But even if he can never give Ian anything else, he wants to give him this. He wants to give him honesty just this once. It’s what the he deserves, and maybe it’s what they both need. 

“I don’t let people tell me who to fuck and who not to fuck. I aint a bitch for liking you,” his voice is quite but heated. “I was a bitch for letting my father do what he did though, for fucking that whore just because he told me to. It’s not going to happen again,” he spits, shuffling the dirt beneath his shoe. 

“You did what you had to do,” Ian notes. “And you protected me,” he adds. Mickey sneers and reaches up before he can think about what he’s doing. 

“Yeah, right…” he mumbles. He touches the cut on Ian’s cheek briefly before pulling his hand away and shoving it in his pocket. 

“I’m sorry I, fuck, I’m sorry I couldn’t help you more,” Ian shakes his head.

“He pulled a fucking gun on you,” Mickey argues. He feels the rage inside of him grow and he hates his father more than he ever thought possible. Ian was the one person in his whole fucked up life that gave a shit and he wasn’t going to let anyone take that away from him. 

“I’m still sorry,” he shrugs. His eyes are so sincere that Mickey’s chest begins to sting sweetly.

“No, you’re still stupid. Don’t worry about me, okay? I can handle my father,” he nods surely. 

“Be careful Mickey.” Ian bites his lip, and Mickey’s mind goes fuzzy with need. He had to deal with his father sooner rather than later because when it came to Ian Gallagher, Mickey had no fucking self-control. 

“Get the fuck outta here before you start reciting poetry or some shit,” he chuckles. Ian grins and scratches the back of his neck uncertainly. 

“Yeah, yeah. I compare thee to a summer’s day,” he teases dramatically. 

“Fuck off,” Mickey laughs, adjusting the gun in his hand to give Ian the middle finger. Ian grins even wider before backing away slowly. 

“Don’t forget to come find me,” he calls. 

“Don’t forget to stay alive,” Mickey fires back.

“I’ll do my best,” Ian promises lightly.

“You better do more than your best jack ass,” Mickey orders, pointing at him seriously. 

“Hey, you keep your end of the deal and I’ll keep mine,” he shrugs. Mickey just nods and watches as Ian finally spins around and begins to jog away. He sighs wearily and looks back down to the gun in his hands. 

“I’ll take care of my fucking father,” he mutters to himself. 

Pointing the gun, he imagines his father’s face in front of him. He pulls the trigger and envisions the bullet flying through the air and landing right between the filthy bastards eyes. He would take care of his fucking father and then he would find Ian again and make things right.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Listen, I’m not gonna give you some bullshit lecture or threaten you to stay away from Ian. He’s a stubborn fuck and he’s gonna do what he wants. And for whatever reason, he wants you,” he nearly chuckles at the uncomfortable expression threading across Mickey’s features.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Following the events of 3.06 and continuing from Chapter one. Not 3.07 compliant.

Lip knows Ian.

He knows a lot of things, but he knows Ian best. 

He knows the twitch of his lips and the hollow of his eyes. He knows that Ian means what he says but sometimes he doesn’t say enough. For three days the redhead had been screaming silently into his face and every unsaid word rings louder and louder. Lip knows his brother but he doesn’t know this version.

“What the fuck happened to you?” he asks, raising his eyebrows in question as he looks Ian up and down. 

There are ugly, shadowed, bruises blooming across his skin and the memory of crusted blood smeared at the collar of his shirt. Ian’s dark eyes blink back at him numbly and the silent screaming rings in his ears again. Lip feels like two invisible hands are grasping his neck and choking all of the air from his lungs.

“Ian?” he pushes gently. He doesn’t have the nerve to be anything other than gentle in that moment. 

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” he mutters, his voice cracking dryly. 

“Well that’s too fucking bad. You’ve barley said a word since you stumbled in here three days ago with that shiner. Someone worked you over and you need to tell me who it was,” Lip insists stubbornly. He can't teach the asshole a lesson if Ian doesn't tell him who the asshole is. 

“Just give it a rest Lip,” he sighs tiredly, sagging against a dirtied wall. Lip is reminded of the way that puppets seemed to hunch in defeat when their strings are sliced. The revelation twists in his gut uncomfortably. 

“No, screw that. You’re not getting away with your silent, brooding shit anymore!” he raises his voice slightly, his uneasiness making him tense and impatient. 

“Fuck. You,” Ian grinds out coldly. He pushes himself off of the wall and moves to walk past Lip. Swerving to cut him off, the older Gallagher is met with the jarring force of Ian’s shoulder as he edges his way through. Sometimes Lip really hated the fact that his little brother wasn't so little any more. 

“Jesus, just because you’re a homo doesn’t mean you need to act like such a moody little bitch,” he mutters purposefully loud. He says it because its bullshit and he knows that somewhere in the back of his mind Ian will understand. He says it because he knows it will get a reaction out of Ian. He says it because he’s scared as hell and he just needs his brother to talk to him.

“Shut your mouth,” Ian practically growls. He turns in one swift motion and fluidly shoves Lip against the wall. His fists clench so tightly in Lip’s shirt that spots of white dot his knuckles. “Shut you fucking mouth Lip. I swear to God if you make me hit you, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop!” he warns almost pleadingly. The words feel familiar because they’re brothers, and brothers fight both for and against each other. But there’s a desperation etched across his features that Lip has never seen before.

“Ian…” Lip coughs.

“Just-just shut your mouth,” he mumbles, averting his eyes and backing away shakily. 

The right thing to do would be to give Ian space. The right thing to do would be to let Ian come to him when he was ready. But, fuck the right thing. Fuck waiting and wondering. He wasn’t going to sit on his ass and wait while the world chipped away at his little brother. That wasn’t Lip’s way, it wasn’t the Gallagher way. And maybe the Gallagher’s didn’t always do the right thing, but they always did something. 

“Fuck! Ian I’m sorry. Hit me if you need to,” he offers jogging to catch up with him. “I’ll still be the better looking brother,” he adds lightly.

“Go away Lip,” Ian sighs, quickening his pace. 

“You know I can’t do that,” he shrugs.

Ian spins around and looks at Lip seriously before sighing, “I don’t want to fight with you.” 

“You’re scaring the shit out of me Ian,” he breathes, every part of his being rattling with anxiety. His bones feel cold and his skin feels stretched. Not having the right answers always made him feel too big and too smalls all at once.

“Things are really fucked up,” he chuckles bitterly and Lip wants to vomit. He doesn’t know this version of his brother and more than he hates not knowing the answers, he hates not knowing Ian.

“Then let me help you,” he says shortly, keeping his eyes locked on Ian’s and willing the younger boy to trust him with his torment.

“You really want to help me?” Ian scrubs a hand over his face wearily and for a moment Lip can’t decipher the beaten skin from the tired flesh under his eyes. “Find Mickey,” he continues. 

“Don’t you work with the asshole like every day?” Lips retorts in confusion. 

He ignores the quip and fixes his gaze before he says, “Check under the bridge or maybe the baseball field. Tell him I need to see him. Tell him to pick a time and a place and to meet me,” he finishes, clearing his throat. 

“Ian, what the fuck is going on?” Lip enunciates. “Is Mickey the one who hit you?” he accuses angrily.

“No,” Ian snaps. “Fuck, no. Mickey didn’t do anything wrong. Just find him and tell him I need to see him. Please Lip,” he swallows, the hardness of his face slipping for a moment. 

“Fine,” he mutters. “Fine, I’ll help you. But if I do this then you have to give me something Ian. You have to tell me something,” he bargains. 

“Okay. Okay, yeah. I will,” he agrees anxiously. “Just find him,” he repeats. 

Lip wants to ask why Mickey Milkovich is so important. He wants to ask if Mickey Milkovich even gives a shit about Ian. He wants to ask what the fuck his soft hearted little brother even sees in the thuggish delinquent. 

“Done,” he promises. 

He doesn’t voice any of the things he wants to ask. Instead he comforts Ian in the only way Ian will allow. He doesn’t know what the fuck a low life, south side scumbag has to do with anything. But if Ian needs Mickey, then Lip will find him. 

It isn’t really about Ian needing Mickey anyway, it’s about Ian needing Lip. And Lip never lets Ian down.

. . . 

The afternoon sun beats down on the baseball diamond as Lip jogs towards a small patch of grass on the far left side of the field. Even from a distance he can hear the crack of Mickey hitting rocks with a bat as weary people pass. Their muffled curses and his manic laughter carry through the thick heat as Lip makes his way across the field. 

“Milkovich,” Lip calls. 

“What the fuck do you want?” Mickey greets casually, swing the bat and hitting a large rock in his direction.

“Fuck!” he curses, barley dodging the rock. “I need to talk to you,” he says, slowing down to catch his breath. 

“I don’t have anything to discuss with you Phillip.” Mickey shakes his head in agitation. Lip takes a closer look at Mickey and blinks in surprise. His face is littered with cuts and bruises. His eyes are hollow and dark, like Ian’s. 

“Fine, I’ll talk and you listen,” he huffs. “Run into a door, Michael?” he points at Mickey’s face, too impatient to tread lightly. He knows he’s playing with fire but he’s never been any good at avoiding flames.

“Did you come to check me out or did you actually have something to say jackass?” he bites, throwing a stone in the air and cracking it with the bat. 

“Ian’s been acting weird lately,” he begins. 

“Ian always acts weird. He’s a freak,” Mickey shrugs. The motion is jagged and forced. Mickey hits three more rocks distractedly. The dark haired boy might not be saying much but his body language is saying more than Ian’s said in three days. Lip clings onto every word. 

“Yeah well, he showed up with some bruises, sort of like the ones you’re sporting. He won’t tell me what happened,” Lip explains. 

“I didn’t touch him,” he scoffs. Lip continues to watch his body react to each question and statement. He can practically feel the anxiety rolling off of him in waves. 

“You two fuck without touching? Kinky,” Lip deadpans. 

Mickey offers him a bitter glare before spitting his warning, “You might wanna shut the hell up.” 

“That’s pretty much all Ian has said to me for the last three days too. That and…” he raises his eyebrows tauntingly, hoping to bait Mickey into the conversation.

“And what?” he snaps, falling into the trap seamlessly. 

“He swears that whatever happened wasn’t your fault, though I find that hard to believe. You kind of have a knack for screwing up Ian’s life, you know that?” he accuses, his voice rid of any lightness. 

Mickey is silent for a long moment and Lip clenches his jaw as he turns away and blinks down at the grass. His movements are no longer anxious and quick. His entire body has gone still. Nothing is turning out the way that Lip had expected it to. 

“I know,” he mutters. “I fucking know,” he repeats as something that looks a lot like self loathing passes across his face.

“I kind of wish you would just get arrested and go back to jail again,” Lip admits honestly. He doesn’t really mean to be malicious; it’s just how he feels.

“I kind of do too,” he nods. “Things are a lot simpler there.” He looks tired, more tired than anyone Lip has ever seen. 

“Listen, I’m not gonna give you some bullshit lecture or threaten you to stay away from Ian. He’s a stubborn fuck and he’s gonna do what he wants. And for whatever reason, he wants you,” he nearly chuckles at the uncomfortable expression threading across Mickey’s features. 

“He’s a fucking idiot,” Mickey mutters.

“No argument here,” Lip agrees. “But he’s my brother so I’m gonna help him even when I don’t understand him,” he explains.

“What does that have to do with me?” Mickey’s eyebrows shoot up expectantly. 

“He wants to see you,” Lip answers. “I don’t know why he couldn’t just find you himself. But he said that he needs to talk to you. You name the time and place and he’ll meet you there,” he relays. 

“I told him to stay away from me right now,” he sighs. 

“Well I guess that’s why I’m playing messenger,” he mentions. “So name the time and place and I’ll let Ian know,” he smiles sarcastically.

“Are you deaf? I can’t see him right now,” Mickey grits. “He needs to stay the fuck away from me.” 

“No. No, he needs to fucking see you. And trust me, that’s the last thing in the world I ever thought I would be saying. I don’t like you. I don’t like whatever it is you have going on with my brother. But he’s been walking around like a damn zombie for the last three days, and the one fucking thing he’s asked for is you,” he raises his voice just enough to feel the thick air rush into his lungs. “I don’t care what you say to him, but you’re going to meet him!” he demands.

“You have no idea what you’re asking Gallagher,” Mickey sneers. 

“I’m not asking. Ian is…” he corrects. The look on Mickey’s face tells him that he’d said the magic word. The very mention of Ian’s name unlocks something that Lip was never meant to see. 

“Fuck!” Mickey yells, running a careful hand down his injured face. 

“Time and place?” Lip prompts, knowing that Mickey had given in.

“Jesus… tonight. Ten-thirty, the roof,” he relents.

“The roof?” Lip questions.

“He’ll fucking know,” Mickey mutters. 

“That’s adorable,” he grins. 

“Get the fuck outta here douchebag,” Mickey pelts a rock at Lip’s knee, missing narrowly. 

“You are a charmer,” Lip chuckles, jogging away and flipping Mickey off. 

The crack of Mickey’s bat continues to sound as Lip makes his way further across the field. He doesn’t know what he just did. He doesn’t know if meeting with Mickey will help Ian or hurt him. But Lip knows that he had to do something. Gallagher’s don’t just sit around and wait for things to happen. Right or wrong, they get shit done.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Mickey’s lips burn and ache for the rest of the night, he blames it on the still healing cracks cause by his father’s fists.

Lip wants to scream. 

When he walks into the group home Ian is flat on his back with his eyes glued to the ceiling. He doesn’t spare Lip a glance when he clears his throat. The muscles in his chest contract and he wants to shake Ian until his shattered pieces fall back together. 

“You got caught,” Lip announces. He doesn’t bother softening the blow because he knows that nothing short of an anvil will garner his attention. 

Ian simply ignores Lip in favor of staring at the ceiling. He’s lying on his back, the dinghy sheets of the group home sticking wetly to his arms. The bed dips slightly as Lip sits at the foot of it, but Ian doesn’t move from his position. Maybe if he’s still enough, he can mold into the sheets and the bed will swallow him whole. He can disappear into an abyss of sweat soaked cloth, and the buzz of humidity and white noise can drown out the steady, painful thump of his heart. 

“Someone found the two of you together, right? It was probably one of Mickey’s brothers or cousins, and they beat the shit out of you. Its either that or you beat the shit out of each other, and you swear that didn’t happen. So who caught you, who was it?” Lip speaks in a clear whisper.

“It doesn’t matter,” he mutters tiredly. 

“I did what I said I would do. Mickey wants to meet you on some roof at ten thirty tonight. He says that you’ll know the place. I don’t know what the fuck that means, but it sounds a hell of a lot like something between two people who are doing more than just screwing. When did that happen, huh? When did Mickey fucking Milkovich become more than some ass to stick your dick into? Don’t even bother denying it. I’m the genius in the family, remember?” he rushes the words, almost in one breath. He tries to sound knowing and sure, but he only sounds frantic and a little sad.

“Shit happens. Shit you don’t mean to happen, happens…” he swallows thickly. Ian doesn’t want to talk anymore. He doesn’t want to talk or think, or breathe. 

“That’s all you’re gonna give me? Shit happens? Fuck that. You owe me an explanation Ian.” Lip wants to hit him; he wants to shake him until everything he’s holding in spills out. 

He thinks about telling Ian that they’re brothers and they’re supposed to tell each other everything, but he knows that isn’t true. They’re supposed to tell each other everything because they’re them. 

“You want an explanation? You want all the gritty details? You wanna hear about how I started to fall for him even though I knew he didn’t feel the same way? Or how I let things go on and on, let myself get deeper and deeper and now I feel like I’m fucking stuck and there’s no way out,” Ian closes his eyes as he speaks. “Even if there was a way out, I wouldn’t take it. I wouldn’t even think of taking it,” he finishes, squeezing his eyes tightly. 

“What else…” he encourages quietly. Lip knows that Ian had meant to shock him into submission. But if this was the only way he could get his brother to open up to him, he would take it. He would take the tragic truths and the sharp tone. He would take it all; anything Ian was willing to give him. 

“Do you wanna hear about how things are more fucked up now than ever? Because any progress he had made, any progress we had made, went out the window the second his father walked in on me fucking him against the couch,” he spits, finally sitting up and opening his eyes. He stares at Lip unwaveringly, pausing for a moment to gauge his reaction. 

“Shit! It was Terry?” he fists his hands to keep them from covering his mouth in shock. Terry Milkovich was ruthless and cruel. The fact that Terry knew about Ian and Mickey wasn’t just the worst case scenario, it was the end. 

“You wanted to know who hit me, now you know. You wanted to know who hit Mickey, you know that too. But there are things that happened that day, things you’ll never know. There are things that I could never tell you,” his voice sounds wet and thick. Lip wants to tell him to stop talking just so that he won’t have to hear that voice ever again. “You want me to tell you everything but I can’t. Lip, I can’t. You can’t know everything because you weren’t there and you didn’t see it. You didn’t feel it,” he continues quietly. 

“Ian…” he sighs brokenly. 

“You don’t know,” he shakes his head, the tears in his eyes clinging in an effort not to spill over. 

“Hey, come here. Come here,” he utters smoothly, reaching out his arm. He pulls Ian to him carefully, pushing his face into his shoulder. 

“Lip, I hate it. I hate it so fucking much.” Ian’s voice is muffled but Lip can feel wet drops land against his shirt. 

“It’s okay. You’re okay. I got you,” he says, squeezing Ian’s his neck firmly and letting his eyes fall shut.

Lip doesn’t remember the day that Ian was born. He doesn’t remember the first time he held him or the first time he made him cry. Lip only remembers Ian always being there, and he remembers always liking it that way. He remembers knowing that Ian was his little brother and that it was his job to protect him.

Lip hates that he’ll remember this as the day that he stopped knowing what to do, the day that he stopped being able to protect Ian. He hates that Ian isn’t okay. 

. . . 

Mickey is fucking scared. 

The seconds melt away like a ticking time bomb and Mickey has to stop him-self from running away and taking cover. He re-laces his shoes two times and paces the length of the roof once as he waits for Ian to arrive. 

He can’t get Lip’s words out of his head, “I’m not asking… Ian is.” His eyes had been knowing and annoyingly sure. The fucking prick had known that Mickey would cave at the mere mention of the redhead.

“Sorry I’m late. The guy that helps us sneak out decided to raise his price,” Ian pants, jogging towards Mickey casually. 

“Did you forget about our last conversation Fire-crotch?” he lights a cigarette and stares up at the dark sky.

“What conversation?” he scrunches his face in confusion.

“The one where I told you to stay the fuck away from me and you agreed,” Mickey breathes out a puff of smoke, his tone detached and flat. The forced calmness in his demeanor is grossly blatant but Mickey doesn’t care. 

“I couldn’t,” he shrugs, forcing his own brand of calm to sooth his tense muscles and anxious heart. The roof is wide and open. Even with the clutter of training equipment it feels big enough that they could just disappear on it.

“Shut the fuck up with your sappy bullshit,” Mickey chastises. He looks around worriedly as though someone will hear them, but they’re alone. It’s Mickey and Ian, and space. Mickey fucking loves it. He loves feeling like they are the only two people on the planet and nothing could touch them.

“Jesus Mickey, I’m not saying that you’re the fucking air that I breathe or whatever,” he snorts and rubs a nervous hand along his neck. “I just suck at waiting okay? I feel like I need to do something,” he admits honestly.

It was true; Ian had never been good at doing nothing. He was a physical person, attracted to movement and activity. It was one of his initial draws toward Mickey; the pressure of strong hands, the sharpness of pleasure and pain, solid walls against his back and hurried, desperate need. It was constant and vibrant. 

“So do something,” he snaps, purposefully obtuse. 

“Let me help you. Whatever you’re planning let me help!” he steps forward and reaches towards the older boy. Mickey pushes his hand away and glares.

“No,” he bites.

“Come on Mickey,” Ian pleads.

“Oh, okay then. Um, fuck no!” he clarifies, eyebrows rising pointedly. 

“Why? Is it illegal, or dangerous?” he challenges. 

“Yes and yes,” Mickey spits.

“Well then you shouldn’t be doing it either.” Ian sounds panicked. 

“He’s my father and I will deal with him,” he steps forward and shoves Ian back with one hand. The force is enough to make Ian stumble, but in the same breathe Mickey grabs his forearm to steady his unbalanced limbs. It’s a paradox of intentions and it’s everything that they have ever been or ever will be. 

“Are you physically unable to accept help or something?” Ian whispers harshly. His voice is so quiet that it almost gets lost in the gentle breeze, but it’s enough to make Mickey flinch. 

“I don’t need you,” he says. 

“Yeah, you’ve made that pretty fucking clear Mick,” the bitterness in Ian’s tone is thick and muddy. “Several times…” he adds quietly. 

“Christ, I didn’t mean it like that Gallagher,” Mickey rubs a hand over his face in frustration. He curses under his breath before finally looking at Ian. “I just don’t need your help with this, okay?” he explains shortly. 

“There has to be something I can do,” Ian swallows. 

“Why do you gotta be so fucking dramatic?” he rolls his eyes in annoyance. 

“Why do you gotta be so fucking stubborn?” Ian counters effortlessly. 

“Fucking hell! Fine, you wanna help? Keep Mandy busy all day Friday, all night too. Make sure she isn’t alone at all. Fucking tale her when she takes a piss if you have to,” he relents. Ian is silent for a moment, carefully taking in each word. 

“You want me to babysit Mandy?” he questions. 

“You’re the one that wants to help so damn much,” he shrugs.

“Lip can deal with Mandy,” Ian points out.

“Look, you’re dumb-ass brother doesn’t completely suck all the time but I still don’t fucking trust him with Mandy’s life,” he breathes anxiously. 

“And you trust me?” he bites his lip to hold back a smirk. Of course he's smirking.

“I just fucking said that didn’t I?” Mickey grunts, hating the way he can give him and inch and Ian will take a damn mile.

“Not really,” Ian mentions knowingly.

“Just keep Mandy busy on Friday asshole. Don’t leave her with your brother and then come looking for me or anything stupid like that. Stay with her,” his eyes bore into Ian and his expression is as serious as it’s ever been. 

“That’s really what you want me to do?” he questions. 

“Yes,” he nods. 

“Fine,” Ian agrees shortly. 

“Fine?” Mickey wonders, looking as though he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. Things were never simple with Ian Gallagher. 

“I just fucking said that didn’t I?” Ian mocks, looking entirely too pleased with himself. 

“Fuck off,” he scoffs.

“Yeah, yeah,” he smiles. He looks at the sky for a moment and then looks back to Mickey. “I should probably get back. I’m not sure how much I trust the idiot helping us sneak out anymore,” he admits. 

“Whatever,” Mickey shrugs. Ian pauses and looks as though he’s deciding something. “What?” Mickey mutters uncomfortably. 

Ian’s gaze drifts to Mickey’s lips and the con knows what he’s thinking, knows what he’s going to do. Mickey could easily turn away or even look down pointedly, but he doesn’t. He stares at Ian’s mouth and Ian stares at his. Finally, Ian grabs the back of Mickey’s neck and yanks him forward roughly. Choking on a snort of manic laughter, Mickey lets Ian pull him closer. Then they’re kissing. It’s too long and too short, too rough and too gentle. It’s too much of everything but really it’s perfect. Mickey finds himself breathless as they pull apart, and honestly he doesn’t give one single fuck about air. 

“I’ll take care of Mandy,” Ian promises. “You just take care of yourself,” he adds, his voice low. 

“Always do,” Mickey says.

“Not really,” Ian whispers. “Find me when it’s done,” he reminds him. He quickly leans forward and kisses Mickey’s lips hard and fast. Then he’s sprinting away, across the roof and out of sight.

If Mickey’s lips burn and ache for the rest of the night, he blames it on the still healing cracks cause by his father’s fists. And even if it did have something to do with Ian Gallagher and his stupid mouth, Mickey would never admit that. At least not until his father was dead and gone. 

Not until Friday.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You’re fucking drowning. This is me offering you a hand. Please take it,”

When the house is empty, Fiona feels empty.

The days pass in a blur of bundled nerves and sticky sweat. Fiona reaches beyond her limits and she fights until her bones ache. Time without her family crawls slowly, heavy with the weight of what had been and what could be. 

“I’m going to fix this,” she promises. The afternoon sunlight thins her eyes into weary slits but, she squares her shoulders readily. “The court date is Friday. I’m getting you all back.” 

Ian doesn’t have the heart to look unsure so he just grips her hand tightly. 

“Good,” he eventually nods. “I think Carl is one bath away from committing a double homicide.” Fiona lets herself smile because that had been what he was aiming for. And if he needed her to smile, she would smile for him. 

“His aversion to soap is gonna be ten times worse now,” she agrees.

“Great.” A look of contemplation skitters across his face as he stares at the ground. Fiona wonders, not for the first time, what might be going on in his head.

“Hey, how have you been?” she asks, tilting her head to catch his eye. He lifts his gaze to stare along the rooftops of the tall building on the horizon, avoiding her probing stare. Something unsettling lingers in the air; clinging to her skin and making it crawl. 

“I’m okay Fiona,” he shrugs weakly. 

With practiced scrutiny she searches his face and says, “You seem sad.” Her words are soft and careful. 

She had always been more careful with Ian, less forceful. When he would stay up late to watch a baseball game, she would look the other way. When he would tip toe into the house late at night, she would accept his flimsy excuses and bite the questions slipping along her tongue. His big innocent eyes would crack her resolve and shatter her intent. She wanted to believe that he was okay.

“Halfway houses aren’t exactly mood boosters,” he smiles crookedly. “Things will be better when we all get back home.” 

Fiona swallows her uncertainty and steels her gaze, “Something else is wrong. Does it have to do with Jimmy’s father?” she guesses.

When Ian chokes out a stuttered chuckle, Fiona knows that she’s wrong. She can't even begin to navigate his response, and it makes her feel fucking stupid. She had never confronted him about his relationship with Lloyd. She had never considered it beyond bouts of mild concern and hesitant curiosity. 

It was different with Ian than it was with the others. It wasn’t better or worse, it was just different. He had never been her child; he had only ever been her little brother 

“What? No. We stopped seeing each other a while ago,” he says honestly. 

“Does that bother you?” she wonders.

“We were just fooling around Fiona. It was never serious.” She watches him swallow uncomfortably. He was her little brother, and he had fucked her boyfriend’s father. It was a bigger deal than she had allowed it to be, but her gut still churns violently when she lets herself dwell. 

“Well something is going on Ian,” she sighs. “What is it? Who is it?” she asks accusingly. She knew that Ian’s what’s were usually caused by who’s. He was good at doing the right thing with the wrong people. 

“I can’t- I can’t tell you,” he admits hesitantly. 

“You can’t tell me?” Her heart stutters in surprise as Ian looks away guiltily. “Look, I make it my business to know what’s going on with all of you. I’m obnoxious about it. But I’ve always given you a little more leeway. Maybe it’s because you’re better at hiding shit than the others, or maybe it’s because you’re the least squeaky wheel and all of that. I honestly don’t know. But I do know that I let more things go with you; let you come to me in your own time. And that’s always worked in the past, or at least I thought it was working. But maybe it’s not,” she finishes.

“I’m okay Fiona.” His voice echoes like a broken record, repeating the same words over and over again. I’m okay, everything is fine, don’t worry… 

Fiona rubs her eyes wearily and shakes her head, “No, you’re not. You’re good at saying you are, good at looking like you are too. You make it easy to believe and even easier to pretend. But you can’t even pretend anymore Ian. You’re fucking drowning.” She widens her eyes pointedly, “This is me offering you a hand. Please take it.” 

She knows that she’s gotten through to him because he looks as though he can’t decide if he wants to hug her or run from her. 

“I wish I could,” he mumbles after a tense moment. “But, this isn’t just about me. There are other people involved and it’s fucked up. I know you would do anything for me. But you can’t help me this time,” he continues.

The frustration stings at her eyes and she pleads, “Talk to me Ian.” 

“I can’t. Not yet…” he says.

“When? Huh, when?” she pushes. She feels angry at herself for not pushing sooner. Ian and his problems are miles away from her now and she doesn’t know how to catch up.

“I don’t know Fiona. I don’t know,” he exhales. She gears up to keep arguing, but the flash of helplessness in his eyes stops her short.

“It doesn’t feel right leaving things like this,” she mutters. He looks like he feels the same way, but he doesn’t say another word. She runs a hand through her thick hair, pulling desperately at the roots.

Fiona feels useless because Ian is staring at her, willing her to do nothing. She blinks away the tears that pool in her eyes and bites the inside of her cheek. Ian doesn’t offer her any comfort and she knows that there is none.

. . .

Lip stumbles over broken, cracked pavement as the Chicago breeze whips against his face.

The sky is dim as he hustles across the empty side street. Quirking an eyebrow he notes the unnatural quiet of the worn path that will take him to the group home. He glances at his phone and picks up his pace when he realizes that he is dangerously close to missing curfew. 

As he passes a darkened alley entrance, a light thump connects with the back of his head. He looks down to find a crumpled piece of paper lying next to his feet and he can’t help but curse, “What the fuck?” he sputters. 

“Read it douche bag.” Mickey slinks out from the alley entrance and nods at the distorted piece of paper.

“I’m actually all set. Thanks though,” he smirks. Whatever Mickey Milkovich is tangled up in, Lip wants no part of.

“Pick up the fucking paper and read it,” he orders impatiently, rubbing at his lower lip with his thumb. With a contemplative tilt of the head, Lip eyes Mickey for several seconds before sighing in exasperation. He was going to be late for curfew so he might as well make it worth his while.

“You really need to learn how to converse like a normal human being Milkovich,” he rolls his eyes before relenting and scooping the paper off of the ground. When he opens the tattered scrap, he finds a slew of messy letters that take him several moments to decipher. 

Mickey taps his foot anxiously and shoots Lip an impassive glare, “That’s the drug that causes heart failure and shit, right? And it can’t be traced in an autopsy…” He sounds hesitant and nervous. Lip lets his gaze linger on the writing before he finally meets Mickey’s questioning stare.

“Holy fuck…” he breathes. “You’re gonna kill him.” 

“Is that the right drug or not?” Mickey scratches his neck uncomfortably and drops his eye to the ground. 

“Does Ian know?” he presses. That’s all it takes to snap Mickey’s eyes back up and hold his unwavering attention. 

He doesn’t answer right away and Lip almost repeats his question. But eventually Mickey’s shoulders relax and he begins to speak quietly, “I didn’t like tell him or whatever. But yeah, I think he knows. He usually fucking knows the shit I don’t want him to so…” he shrugs helplessly. Because Mickey is helpless when it comes to Ian and Lip is kind of starting to understand that. 

“He’s not involved at all, is he?” Lip asks. 

“Fuck no,” he says. His voice is fully of stubborn sincerity, and it almost seems as though he’s angry that Lip would even suggest that. 

He nods in acceptance and offers a reply of, “Good,” and shoves the note towards Mickey again. He waits for the other boy to take the paper before asking, “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“It’s gotta be done. You know that,” Mickey levels. Lip doesn’t like agreeing with Mickey Milkovich about anything but, he knows that something has to be done. 

“Fuck man. Be careful I guess.” Lip lets out a long breathe of air. 

“Didn’t know you cared,” he smirks, shoving his hands into his pockets. 

“I don’t dickhead, not about you anyways. But I care about Ian and he cares about you so, just do not fucking die,” he clarifies sternly. “And don’t land yourself in jail again. That story’s getting real played out,” he grins easily. 

“If this goes bad, it won’t be because of the police. Trust me,” Mickey mutters wearily.

They share a look of understanding after that, but Lip hates the way the words settle in the air. He wants to open his mouth and erase them or cover them with something less grim. But he finds his throat dry and his tongue bare. There’s nothing left to say, nothing left to do.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was too late for them to shake the mess that they had created, too late for them to walk away unscathed. Sometimes Mickey hated Ian for that, but most of the time he just learned to live around it.

Ian was six the first time he truly learned what it meant to be a Gallagher.

There had been a group of boys at school who would pick on him because he was small, and he was poor, and he was an easy target. Lip had found him nursing skinned knees one afternoon after being pushed down on the playground. The next day, three of the boys had found themselves spitting gravel and blood. Fiona and Lip had shared a private smile, each with a hand gripping Ian’s shoulder.

They didn’t say it out loud but Ian heard it anyway; nobody fucked with the Gallagher’s.

The rest of the world might rain madness but the six wayward siblings would grip the edge of the earth, grip each other. They would burn, and crumble and break until there was nothing left. They would fight and they would never stop fighting. 

Ian feels that unstoppable Gallagher fight, flowing through his veins, as they rush through the door of the place they call home. With Carl on his heels, pushing and shoving, Ian feels the laughter bubble inside of him and he scoops the smaller boy up and swings him around. 

“Home sweet home,” Lip smirks, kissing the top of Debbie’s head as he shuffles into the kitchen with Mandy on his heels. Ian nods in agreement before tossing Carl onto the couch effortlessly.

“I call the first shower!” Debbie yells, turning towards the stairs.

“You can have all the showers. I’m never bathing again,” Carl frowns seriously. Ian feels Fiona squeeze his shoulder and they share a brief, fond glance.

“You get a two day reprieve little man,” she negotiates.

“Yeah Carl, if you start smelling too ripe we’re sending you back,” Ian threatens.

“Fuck that!” he exclaims, standing on the couch cushions in alarm.

“Hey, watch your language and plant your ass. Our couch may be a piece of shit but we don’t stand on that piece of shit,” Fiona says. 

Ian loves everything about his life in this moment. Debbie is barreling up the stairs and Lip is scrounging around the kitchen for food. Carl is restlessly pushing the limits and Fiona is scolding him with Liam on her hip. The house is noisy and full, it’s everything he’s ever wanted and never knew he needed. 

“Re-thinking the whole guardianship thing?” he teases, nodding towards Carl as he tosses his shoes across the room. 

“Absolutely,” she grins, shoving his shoulder with her own. 

“Welcome home Fiona,” he smiles. 

Because, Fiona had lived in the house and walked the familiar halls but she had been away from home in their absence too.

“Welcome home Ian,” she says. 

Ian’s smile freezes when he sees Mandy’s dark hair dance across the kitchen, and he’s reminded that other families aren’t like his. Mickey and Mandy would never know that feeling of fullness that settled in Ian’s gut every time he saw one of his siblings. They would never listen to the word family and hear what Ian hears. 

People might be afraid of the Milkovich family but everyone knew not to fuck with the Gallagher’s. They didn’t just fight for themselves, they fought for each other.

. . .

The sky is dim when Mickey works up the nerve to knock on the Gallagher’s door.

With confusion etched across her face, Debbie opens the door to find him hunched over with his hands in his pockets. He can tell by the look on her face that she considers slamming the door, or maybe reaching for a bat. But Mandy sees Mickey from her spot on the couch and she jumps out of her seat in surprise, stepping in front of Debbie almost protectively.

“What do you want ass face?” she quips. 

He chews on his bottom lip and tries to find the right words. When he comes to the conclusion that there are none he sniffs carelessly, “Dad is dead.”

Mickey doesn’t know where Ian had come from but suddenly he’s there. Lingering behind Mandy with his eyes locked onto Mickey’s, Ian is there.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Mandy snaps. She looks scared, and hopeful, and angry all at once. 

“Heart attack,” he shrugs. “I found him on the kitchen floor when I got home from my meth run with Nicky.” His voice is flat and hollow, but he has to work to keep it that way. 

A shuddering breathe passes Mandy’s lips as she says, “Jesus…” and Mickey can only stare at the hand Ian lays on her shoulder as she quietly processes the information.

“Yeah, well. The police fucked up the house when they came to get the body and it smells like ass, so you might want to wait a day or two to come home. Not that you spend much time in that dump anyways. You’re always holed up in this palace,” he smirks sarcastically. 

“Do Iggy and the others know?” she wonders mechanically. 

“I left a note on the door,” he answers. 

“You left a fucking note. Are you kidding me Mick?” Her mouth twists in disgust, and he wants to rip her away from Ian and tell her to shut the fuck up. 

“Look, I dealt with the dead body and the police. You can deal with the rest of the bullshit,” he barks, because he’s really not in the mood for her attitude. 

She’s about to bite back when Lip stumbles down the stairs looking confused and disheveled. “What’s going on?” he clears his throat. 

“Terry is dead, you’re stuck with Mandy, and I’m outta here,” Mickey says flipping the hood of his sweatshirt over his head and turning to leave. When he walks down the pathway he expect to hear the door slam but he only hears rushed footsteps. 

“Mickey, wait!” Ian yells, closing the door and catching his shoulder. Mickey shrugs out of his hold and shifts anxiously.

“Fuck off Fire-crotch,” he mutters. He suddenly feels very tired. 

“You did it?” Ian wonders hesitantly. 

Mickey shrugs but eventually says, “I was kind of a pussy about it though, poisoning him…” He looks Ian directly in the eye when he speaks. He doesn’t bite his lip or look away, his gaze steady and sure. His insides might have been bubbling violently with horror and disbelief, but not a trace of regret lingered in his ocean blue eyes. 

“Mick, you can’t just say that stuff. You have to be careful,” Ian glances around carefully, his throat bobbing as he swallows. Mickey fights the urge to scoff because Ian has always been the one in their relationship to run his goddamn mouth. Mickey knows how to keep secrets, sometimes he thinks it’s the only thing, aside from bashing heads, he’s any good at. 

“No shit! I’m not shouting it from the rooftops, I’m telling you. Jesus, is that okay?” he shoves the redhead’s shoulder roughly and tries to pretend that he isn’t trying to tell Ian that he’s different than other people, that he trusts him.

“Yes,” he rushes. “Of course, you know you can talk to me about anything,” he continues.

“Don’t go all after-school special on me Gallagher,” he chuckles bitterly, taking a seat on the concrete stairway.

Ian follows and nudges his shoe gently. “You know what I mean,” he says.

“Yeah, I guess. Fuck,” he mutters softly, finally looking away.

It had always been easier for Mickey to accept hate and anger. Love was something else entirely, Ian was something else entirely. He had fallen asleep next to Mickey once. They had fucked each other senseless, breathing so hard the sound of blood rushing through their veins had drowned out their helpless moans. When Mickey had finally stopped seeing stars, he had turned to find Ian’s chest rising and falling steadily. His mouth was parted slightly, his eyelashes hugging his cheek bones. Mickey’s heart had physically stuttered to a stop for the longest moment of his life, and the twitch of Ian’s hand against his had jump-started it back into overdrive.

Mickey had pushed him off of the bed and yelled at him to get the fuck out. It had been a useless attempt to regain control. But Mickey’s denial and fear hadn’t mattered then, and Terry’s hatred didn’t matter now. Ian’s hands were firmly clamped around Mickey’s heart and his grip was bruising. If Ian ever chose to let Mickey go, he would leave his fingerprints behind. It was too late for them to shake the mess that they had created, too late for them to walk away unscathed. Sometimes Mickey hated Ian for that, but most of the time he just learned to live around it.

“You’re probably gonna get pissed at me for asking but just- are you okay?” Ian bites his lip hesitantly and Mickey can see that he doesn’t want to ask the question, doesn’t want to push too hard. 

“I’m great,” he smirks.

“Mickey…” His voice is almost a whisper and it makes the older boy shiver. He was good at keeping secrets, and Ian was good at pretending. Together they had fallen into a hole where what they felt and what they did hardly ever matched up. But the hole had become suffocating and Ian had started to dig them from it, clawing his way to the surface and dragging Mickey along. Now it felt like everything was just hovering along the edge, waiting to spill over. 

“Look, I did what I had to do. The old man probably would have called me a bitch for doing it the way I did. But fuck him. Maybe I am a little bitch, but I aint stupid. I’ve seen plenty of people try and take out Terry Milkovich with guns and fists. They’re all dead now,” he affirms. 

Ian is quiet for a long moment, his fingers twitching restlessly. “I don’t know what to say,” he admits. 

“That’s a first,” Mickey scoffs. 

“Shut up. I just, I want to help you,” he mentions, his voice gritty and fragile all at the same time. 

“I’m fine. He’s dead and I’m not. Neither are you so…” He stares at Ian again, this time letting his words sink in. “I’m fine,” he repeats.

“You have a way of making fine sound like shit,” Ian mutters.

“This is the south side Gallagher. Shit is as good as it gets,” Mickey says earnestly. Ian scowls at that and lets his fingers dance along the concrete steps until they ghost over Mickey’s. 

Mickey starts to pull away, but Ian stops him. “Come on. Don’t… Just let me,” he urges softly. 

“Fuck…” he breathes. He allows Ian’s fingers to slip through his own and squeeze tightly, almost painfully. 

“Stay here tonight,” the taller boy says. And Mickey isn’t sure if it’s a question or an order.

“Yeah right,” Mickey says, rolling his eyes at the idea and pulling away once again.

“I’m serious. Carl and Debbie are camping out in the living room with Liam since it’s our first night back together. Fiona will let you take Carl’s bed while the mess at your house gets taken care of.” The conviction in his voice is temping and Mickey allows him to clutch at his hand.

“Fiona hates me,” he mentions.

“You’re my friend and you’re Mandy’s brother. Your father just died. She’ll let you stay,” he explains.

“It’s a bad idea,” Mickey sighs.

“Probably,” he smiles widely, knowing that he’s won. 

And Mickey hates that he’s right, he hates it but he knows it’s true. With the goddamn hold he had on Mickey’s heart, Ian would always win.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He thinks that Mickey might be the only other person that knows what he is truly capable of.

Ian is a good fuck. He knows that he’s a good fuck, better than good if he’s being honest instead of modest. 

The first time he really feels that carnal power, Roger Spikey is in front of him on his hands and knees. He remembers the way Rogers voice had sounded as he begged for more, and the way that it had taken him three whole thrusts to figure out what that meant; more of Ian. More of what Ian was doing to him. 

When he looks in the mirror he doesn’t see someone who can make people scream and moan, and writhe is pleasure. He knows that people don’t expect him to have a big dick, and they definitely don’t expect him to know how to use it. But he likes surprising people, becoming something new and different right before their eyes. He likes making them dizzy with pleasure until they forget their own name and can only scream his.

“Stop thinking so damn loud. I’m trying to sleep,” Mickey grunts into the dark room.

“You think I’m good in bed, right?” Ian blurts. Mickey leans up onto his elbows and stares at Ian as though he has three heads. 

“We’re not fucking with your family lurking in every goddamn corner of this house. You’re never as quiet as you promise you’ll be,” he sighs tiredly. Ian is grateful for the lack of light that hides the hot blush creeping along his cheeks.

“I wasn’t trying to get into your pants,” he rolls his eyes. “I was just asking a question.” 

“A question is never just a question with you,” Mickey replies knowingly.

Biting back his hesitation and self-consciousness, Ian spits out his question, “It’s pretty simple Mick. Am I an above average fuck or not?” He raises an anxious eyebrow. 

Mickey lets out a huff of air and rubs his face in contemplation. He isn’t contemplating whether or not Ian is a good fuck, because that’s a no-brainer. Ian is the best fuck that Mickey’s ever had and no one else even came close. He takes a moment to contemplate his answer because the wording is important. Everything is different now and the way he says shit suddenly matters a hell of a lot more. 

“You know you do more than just get the job done Gallagher,” he finally says. 

“I guess,” he bites his lip. 

“It’s not like I kept showing up to the Kash and Grab for the fantastic service or anything,” he adds reassuringly. But his words don't settle Ian like he knows they had been intended to. 

“Is that the only reason you kept coming back, because I’m a good fuck?” Ian’s voice is hesitant now. 

It probably takes Mickey too long to figure it out, but in the end he understands. The whole thing had been a roundabout way for Ian to ask if Mickey actually liked him. 

“Sure,” he admits. “At first.”

“Only at first?” he urges, because he really doesn't know when to stop pushing.

“Fucking hell Gallagher,” Mickey groans. “Your sparkling personality didn’t lure me into bed with you or whatever. But yeah, I like you more than I like most people. Okay?” He widens his eyes expectantly. 

Ian smiles and taps his fingers against Mickey’s under the covers. For a second the older boy thinks that he’s going to try and hold hands, but he doesn’t. He just taps his fingers against Mickey, drumming them contently against the warm skin. 

“Well…” Ian begins. “It was definitely your charm that caught my eye,” he finishes cheekily. Mickey kicks at his feet until the redhead begins to chuckle softly.

“Douchebag,” he mutters. 

“And they say romance is dead,” Ian giggles gracelessly, and he knows he sounds fucking stupid but he can't help it.

“Fuck off,” Mickey grins. His words only cause another peel of laughter to rip from Ian’s throat, and soon Mickey is snorting right along with him.

“Sweet dreams to you too,” Ian turns his head against Mickey’s shoulder and smiles into the warm skin. 

“Shut up and go to sleep Fire-crotch,” he grunts, ignoring the goose bumps that prickle along his arm as warm breath tickles him lightly. 

“Glad you stayed,” Ian mumbles sleepily. He presses closer to Mickey, chipping away at walls no one else could even see.

Seconds before he finally drifts to sleep, he swears he hears Mickey whisper, “Me too…” And maybe it’s his imagination, or wishful thinking. But it doesn’t even matter because he falls asleep with a smile on his face and Mickey’s hand against his own. 

. . .

The stairs creek as Ian stumbles down each step and into the kitchen.

Fiona is washing dishes, her eyes tired but content when she asks, “Is Mickey awake yet?” She’s aiming for casual but her tone is tense and uncomfortable. 

“Uh, I don’t know. I don’t think so,” Ian rubs his eyes tiredly. 

“Good. I need to talk to you about something,” she begins, drying her hands with a worn cloth and turning to face him fully. 

Carl is sitting at the kitchen table, inhaling a large bowl of cereal and dripping milk onto the front of his shirt. Fiona looks at the younger boy carefully before deciding that his breakfast will provide enough of a distraction for them to talk privately. 

Ian leans against the counter and folds his arms across his chest. “What’s up?” he wonders, giving her his full attention. 

“Look, I think it’s sweet that you’re trying to help Mickey and Mandy, with their dad being dead and all. But be careful, I don’t want you getting too wrapped up in that family,” she says. 

“You worry too much Fiona,” he smiles lightly.

“You give me too many reasons to worry. Mickey Milkovich? He’s bad news and I don’t want him dragging you down.” Her hands sweep through the air dramatically as she talks before finally landing on her hips. 

“We work together at the store. He’s not that bad,” Ian shrugs. He wasn’t always the best liar, but he was good at misleading people, and he was really good at omitting the truth. 

“He smells like Frank,” Carl garbles through a mouthful of mushy cereal. 

Fiona rolls her eyes but presses on, “He’s a lowlife, just like his father was,” she says. Ian feels his jaw clench at the comparison and he has to force himself not to react too strongly.

“He’s nothing like Terry. You don’t really know him,” he finally manages.

“Well, I don’t want to know him,” she snaps. “I just got one Milkovich to move out, so don’t you dare let another one worm their way into this house.” Her voice is teasing but her eyes are serious.

“It was one night Fiona. Extenuating circumstances…” he says. 

She’s quiet for a moment, and Ian thinks that maybe she’s going to let the subject drop. But after several silent seconds, he recognizes the consideration etched across her face and he shifts in discomfort. 

“You don’t have a crush on him, do you?” she whispers, leaning forward so that Carl doesn’t hear her.

“What?” he chokes.

She shoves his shoulder and points a finger in face. “Don’t even think of barking up that tree. He’d kill you Ian!” she warns quietly. 

“I do not- Jesus, I’m not some nympho with a hard on for every guy in close proximity.” He runs a hand through his hair nervously and concentrates on steadying his heart. 

“I know, I know. I’m sorry,” she apologizes. “I just don’t understand your thing with the Milkovich kids. It’s like you keep making it your job to ride to their rescue or something.” Her eyes roll casually as she speaks and Ian feels his pulse jump. He wishes that she could see them the way that he did. 

“They haven’t had the easiest life,” he says.

“And we have?” she challenges.

“That’s sort of my point,” he explains. “Maybe helping people like us is just as important as helping ourselves,” he says, nudging her foot with his own.

“That’s the dumbest shit you’ve ever said…” she mutters. “Where’s Lip? I need him to smack some sense into you.” She whips her head back and forth dramatically, pretending to search the kitchen. 

“I’ll do it!” Carl volunteers, his mouth dripping with milk. 

“Eat your Fruit Loops Carl,” Ian deadpans. 

Fiona laughs easily but kicks at his shoe. “Stop being so damn nice, okay? You’re gonna get yourself hurt and I don’t wanna see that happen. I love you too much,” she smiles, pulling him against her and hugging him tightly. He squeezes her to his chest before letting go and grinning.

“Love you too Fiona,” he replies. 

“Good. Now go wake your delinquent friend, we start changing after eleven,” she orders. 

“Guardianship has made you cold,” he teases, dodging her hand when she reaches out to smack him across the back. 

“Ice cold!” Carl shouts, waving his spoon in the air. 

“Eat your Fruit Loops Carl,” Fiona yells. 

The muffled banter follows Ian all the way up the stairs and through the hallway. When he opens the door to his room he finds Mickey blinking open tired eyes and looking worn but relaxed. The sleepy smile he offers makes Ian’s breath hitch in his throat. He knows that his feelings for Mickey are becoming dangerous, reckless. But he can’t find it in himself to walk away. 

“Morning…” he says softly.

“Whatever the fuck that means,” Mickey grumbles, stretching his body and yawning loudly. 

Ian clears his throat and toys with the hem of his tattered shirt. “Get up. I’ll make us breakfast,” he offers. 

Mickey sits up and stares at Ian for a long moment. Standing up, he cracks his neck and asks, “Pancakes, waffles, donuts? What am I being bribed with?”

“Free food is free food. I could poor you a bowl of fucking cereal and you wouldn’t give a shit,” Ian scoffs knowingly.

“Yeah, I guess. You’re not actually gonna poor me some lame ass cereal though are you?” He moves towards the door cautiously and Ian fights the smile tugging at his lips.

“I was thinking waffles,” he shrugs. 

“Waffles?” Mickey repeats.

“The frozen blueberry kind,” he says. Mickey smirks appreciatively and bumps their shoulders together as he passes.

“You’re not so bad Gallagher,” he calls, grinning over his shoulder. And Ian kind of hates the fluttering in his stomach, but he's kind of learning to accept it. Because as long as Mickey is around, he doubts that it'll stop. 

There are a lot of things that people don’t know about Ian, things that they would never believe. He can run fast and hit hard, but he’s deceptively lean and notoriously sweet. People don’t expect him to fight back or stand tall. They don’t expect him to do anything really. But Ian knows what he can do. And he thinks that Mickey does too. He thinks that Mickey might be the only other person that knows what he is truly capable of.

Because, Mickey knows that Ian can fuck and he knows that Ian can fight. Ian can make him scream with pleasure, or with pain. Mickey knows things about Ian that no one else in the world knows. It’s terrifying and exciting, and really fucking confusing.

And he doesn’t really want to, but even if he did, Ian wouldn’t know how to walk away from something like that.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t tell me to shut or to fuck off. Don’t say anything, just listen. I don’t want you to disappear again, okay? So don’t disappear. Just stay,” he doesn’t say with me but they both know that’s what he means.

Mickey never expected to feel bad about murdering his father, but it surprises him when he finds that he feels nothing at all. 

He tries to conjure up a decent memory, learning to throw a punch or toss a baseball, something that will make his eyes sting with regret. But Ian is too fresh in his mind, too all encompassing, for Mickey to think of much else. He remembers the way that Terry had launched himself at Ian, and the way a thick trail of blood had marked his pale chest. The red line had slid right down his middle, slicing him apart the same way that Mickey’s insides had torn in two at the sight of it.

Terry Milkovich was not a good father and he was not a good person. But Ian Gallagher was a good person; he was the best person as far as Mickey was concerned. He wasn’t deluded enough to believe that murder was okay, but he thought that maybe protecting Ian wasn’t so bad. Protecting Ian felt right in the way that nothing else in his life did. It also felt permanent, like the promise tattooed across his brutal knuckles. He didn't remember getting his tattoos, too drunk and high to have been thinking clearly. He didn't remember deciding to protect Ian either, it had just happened. But Mickey didn't regret either decision, not even a little. 

The linoleum was almost clean, cleaner than it had been in years at least. Mandy and Ian had scrubbed the tiles late that morning, the sun streaking through the window and lighting up the dust and grime floating through the air. Mickey had watched until every speckle of dried blood, from where Terry had hit his head when he’d collapsed, had faded away. Mandy didn’t cry but she looked like she thought she might. With a damp rag still hanging in his large hand, Ian had clutched her to his chest for an uncomfortably long moment. She'd clung to his shirt like a life vest and Mickey had fisted his hands until she let go. 

Lip and Mandy had fucked all throughout the night after Mickey had announced that Terry was dead. But since then she had shadowed Ian, pulling him close and holding him tightly when she didn’t know what to feel. She felt him all around her so that she wouldn’t have to feel anything else, and Mickey knew what she was doing because it was what he wanted to do more than anything. But Ian had been Mandy’s first. And the way her fingers whitened when she gripped him made Mickey think that Ian would always be Mandy's. 

“Hey, um Mandy wants to stay at my place again tonight.” Ian’s fingers tap against the door hesitantly as he enters Mickey’s room. His cheeks are pink and he looks slightly out of breath, tired from the cleaning he and Mandy had been doing. “She and Lip will probably fuck until they both pass out again,” he mentions, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

“Probably,” Mickey shrugs, staring up at the ceiling from his position on his bed. 

“I could come back here later tonight if you want, to hang out or whatever. Mandy said that your brothers won’t be home for a few days. Unless you want to be alone,” he offers. 

“Doesn’t matter to me Fire-Crotch,” he says carelessly. 

He hears Ian’s footsteps approaching and he manages to sit up a bit before the redhead begins to speak, “What exactly are we doing Mick?” he wonders quietly. He sits down on the edge of the bed, too close for comfort, though Mickey still finds himself itching to push closer. 

“Well, looks like we’re about to have one of those fucking heart to hearts you love so damn much,” he groans knowingly.

“I’m worried, okay? Sometimes it seems like we’re getting closer, or things are getting better between us. But I know you’re dealing with a lot of shit and I don’t just want to assume anything,” he says. His eyes are wide and sincere, so damn sincere that Mickey thinks he might puke. People shouldn’t be that sincere, it isn’t smart or fair, or fucking normal. 

“Look, just stop thinking so much. It aint worth it,” he sighs. 

“I kind of think it fucking is,” Ian argues. 

“What do you want me to say, huh? Nothing’s changed. My dad found out we were fucking, but now he’s dead so it doesn’t really matter.” Rubbing his eyes tiredly, Mickey forces himself not to look away from Ian. After everything they had been through, he deserves at least that.

“Jesus Mickey, of course it matters. You matter to me and I know I matter to you. And I fucking hate that you had to do what you did, and I hate that I don’t know how to help you. Just- just fucking tell me what I can do to help you,” he breathes.

“Shit,” Mickey mutters, exhaling loudly. He blinks hard, thinking about what to say and how to say it. He isn’t good with words and he’s even worse with feelings. But he knows that he doesn’t want to hurt Ian anymore. “Come over tonight after the fuck-wards pass out. If you can get your hands on some of Lip’s weed, bring that with you I guess,” he shrugs. 

“I will,” Ian nods eagerly, like Mickey has just given him the most important task in the word. The older boy almost laughs at the idea of someone considering him important. But it isn’t funny, not really, because he knows that he is important to Ian. He doesn’t know why but he knows he is. 

“Get out of here before Mandy figures out you aren’t attached to her hip,” he smirks, shoving Ian off the bed. 

“Fuck you,” he chuckles, steadying his feet. He brushes his shirt off distractedly and looks at the door before looking back to Mickey. There’s a wild flare in Ian’s eye and Mickey is about to ask him what the fuck he’s doing, when he leans in and kisses him firmly. He’s pulling back before Mickey can hold on to the taste of his lips and he’s half way out the door when he quietly calls, “See you tonight.”

Mickey stares at the door even after he hears Mandy bitching at Ian about taking too long. He stares as he hears the front door clicks shut. He isn’t sure how long he keeps staring at the door but he knows that it’s too fucking long. Apparently kissing is a thing that they do now, a thing that Mickey likes that they do. Mickey wants to be surprised but a part of him has always known that he would like kissing Ian. Closer was better, more was better. He had always wanted everything from Ian, and now he was finally too weak to hide it. 

The rest of the day is spent avoiding phone calls and numbing his mind with cheep alcohol and bad TV. He tries to repair the walls that Ian has systematically been breaking down with crowbars and smiles. It’s pretty useless but he keeps trying anyways. By the time the front door creeks open again its dark and Mickey is leaning against the kitchen counter sipping a beer. His eyes are glued to the floor and the outline of his father’s lifeless body hovers in his vision like a ghost. 

“Mickey?” Ian calls, hesitantly. 

“Kitchen,” he replies shortly. When Ian shuffles into the room, he offers Mickey a small smile. Peeling his zip up from his body, he leans against the stove across from Mickey.

“Hey, what’s up?” he asks.

“It’s been like five hours since the last time we saw each other. Nothing is fucking up,” he scoffs. Ian’s brow furrows and he looks upset but Mickey isn’t sure why.

“Okay,” he finally sighs. Running a hand through his short hair, the redhead bites his lip in contemplation before he takes a deep breath and says, “Look Mick, I don’t wanna push you or whatever. But just ah, just so you know, I’m here if you need to talk." 

Mickey rolls his eyes but he has to swallow the lump in his throat. A million thoughts run through his mind and a few almost even slip out. He forces himself to sound annoyed when he replies, “shut up” and his eyes stop focusing on the spot on the floor long enough to meet Ian’s intent gaze. 

“Don’t tell me to shut up or to fuck off. Don’t say anything, just listen. I don’t want you to disappear again, okay? So don’t disappear. Just stay,” he doesn’t say with me but they both know that’s what he means. 

The words get stuck in Mickey’s throat so he just nods. It’s barley a movement of his head but it’s enough. He gulps down the rest of his beer and sets the bottle on the counter harder than necessary. Moving quickly, before he can think too hard, Mickey walks towards Ian and rests his hands against the taller boy’s sides. He tips his head up and kisses him, softer than he had intended. They press against each other gently for a moment before the comfortable push and pull of their physicality takes over. Ian’s tongue presses into Mickey’s mouth and he hates the way his knees go weak. It’s fucking stupid and gay, and so fucking good. 

He doesn’t think of his father’s dead body on the kitchen floor or the Russian that he was forced to fuck in the living room. He doesn’t think of his father’s fists pounding away at his flesh or the way his gut curled at the look on Ian’s face that day. Ian’s mouth makes him strong and weak, and forgetful. Everything around him feels like Ian and everything is so much better than it was without him. Mickey will remember to be terrified about that later, but for now he can only kiss and touch, and want. 

“Fuck,” Mickey breathes, letting Ian’s forehead rest against his.

“Do you wanna, I mean we don’t have to but- just…” Ian mumbles awkwardly and Mickey chuckles. 

“I want you in me like now,” he confirms. 

“Are you sure?” he swallows.

“Of course I’m fucking sure,” Mickey says nodding.

“Mickey…” his lips ghost across Mickey’s jaw. It’s too much and he has to shove Ian’s shoulder until he turns around and starts walking.

“Bedroom. Now,” he says.

“Yes sir,” Ian grins, pulling his shirt over his head as he walks. 

Mickey shakes his head in wonder as he follows. He thought he had wanted to feel Ian all around him so that he wouldn’t have to feel anything else. But he feels himself grin at Ian when the redhead looks back and he knows its more than that. He knows its more than anything he could ever put into words. It's scary and its consuming, and it's probably going to eat him alive. But when Ian tugs his arm and crowds him against a wall, heat filling all the empty spaces in Mickey's heart, he can't think of a single fucking reason to care.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey is quiet for a long moment but he doesn’t look away again. He stares at Ian like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle, or maybe take one apart.

Ian feels like he might be floating.

He’s panting and smiling, and furrowing his eyebrows in wonder. His body is spent and he doesn’t know what to feel, he doesn’t know what to do next. He never knows what to do next anymore.

“You okay?” he breathes, turning his head to look at Mickey through his light lashes. It’s typical because he knows he’s said the wrong thing the second the words leave his mouth. Mickey is throwing an arm over his face and scooting away from him pointedly. 

“Why the fuck would you ask me that?” he grunts, licking his dry lips. 

Ian thinks about staying quiet and letting the subject drop. He thinks about getting up and putting his clothes back on, leaving and letting Mickey stew in the silence he so obviously craves. It’s stupid that Ian thinks about so many things because in the end, he knows that he’s not the kind of person that can do anything but say what he needs to say.

“We haven’t been together since…” he trails off unsurely. A look of betrayal flashes in Mickey’s eyes and Ian knows that it’s because he’s broken their unspoken vow to never mention that day again. 

“Fuck off Gallagher,” Mickey scoffs, lifting his arm to send Ian a sneer. “Seem like I’m traumatized?” he bites. The downward twist of his lips lets Ian know that he’s skating on thin ice.

Ian doesn’t want to remember that day, but he can’t just forget about it either. He can’t forget the sound of the gun hitting Mickey’s skull. He can’t forget the thick stench of fear or the bitter taste of bile churning in his throat. Most of all he can’t forget the way that his body shook, the feeling seared into his blood and bones. It was like all of his pieces had fallen away, carving thick scars against his skin and marring him forever. 

“No,” he utters quietly.

“Okay then, drop it already!” he barks. Mickeys turns onto his stomach and buries his face in a pillow. But, hiding his face doesn’t hide his emotions. The fact that he hasn’t asked Ian to leave yet is what gives the redhead the courage to keep pushing. 

“I feel like we should talk or something,” he swallows, turning on his side and resting his hand next to Mickey’s ribs. He focusses on working up the nerve to touch him, instead of the twisting in his gut. Touching Mickey had always been easier than talking to him.

“You always feel like we should talk. Christ Gallagher, what do you want me to say?” Mickey lifts his head and resignation flashes in his eyes. Ian thinks that maybe he’s figured out that he cares, that he cares enough to keep pushing and that he cares enough not to stop. “I don’t like banging Russian sluts but I do like banging you. It’s that simple,” he explains briefly, dropping his head back onto the pillow when he finishes. 

“I get that you don’t want to talk about it and maybe I’m being pushy…” Ian says.

“You think?” Mickey mumbles into the fabric of his sheets.

“Mick, you know I fucking care about you. Don’t give me that look. It’s just the truth,” he shrugs, holding Mickey’s gaze as the older boy looks at him wearily. “I want you to be okay, or like whatever passes for okay in our shitty lives,” he adds. 

Mickey is quiet for a long moment but he doesn’t look away again. He stares at Ian like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle, or maybe take one apart. Ian doesn’t know what answers Mickey is looking for but he stares right back and tries to give him whatever it is he needs. 

“Everything is kind of fucked up,” Mickey finally mutters. He takes a few shaky breaths before continuing. “But like, not with you. Actually that’s not really true. But, I guess shit is better or less fucked or something with you. Shit makes sense with us, maybe. I don’t even know what the fuck I’m saying,” he sighs. 

“I don’t either,” Ian offers, smiling softly. “But I think it’s good. It’s good, right?” he raises his eyebrows in question and ghosts his fingers across Mickey’s side. The soft skin prickles with goose bumps and Ian fights the grin tugging at his lips. Mickey could hide his face as much as he wanted, but he couldn’t hide his feelings, not when Ian had gotten so damn good at figuring them out.

"You're so fucking..." Mickey sighs tiredly.

"Gay. Yeah, yeah I know," Ian rolls his eyes. "But I kind of think it’s the dick sucking and ass fucking that makes me gay. Not so much the talking about my feelings thing," he teases carefully.

"Whatever," he grumbles, smirking just slightly. 

“Whatever," Ian mocks, kicking Mickey's calf muscle under the blankets.

Rolling his eyes he says, “Just stop worrying so fucking much, okay?” and Ian swears that he scoots closer again. “I’m fine and I’ll be fan-fucking-tastic if you shut the hell up and let me sleep.” 

He pushes into the pressure of Ian’s fingers subtly. And fine, if Mickey wants to sleep then Ian will let him sleep. Because, when he’s sleeping Mickey lets the worried crease between his eyebrows loosen and smooth. When he’s sleeping, he lets Ian lace their fingers together or brush a kiss across his shoulder. He doesn’t push, or pull, or run. He just lets them be. When he’s sleeping, Mickey lets Ian love him. 

. . .

Lip had once told Ian that he couldn’t do anything by himself. But, the truth was Ian could stand to ask for help a little more.

There was something to be said for reading between the lines. And it was a good thing Lip liked to read, because with Ian there was a lot to decipher. The false smiles and secret frowns, it was all part of a language that Lip liked to think he knew better than anyone else. 

He knew Ian best because he paid attention to Ian the most. He knew Ian best because he loved Ian best.

“What’s going on with Ian?” Fiona questions him. And Lip knows that Fiona is busy and tired, so sometimes she catches on a little late. But, she always catches on and that’s really what matters in the end. That’s what’s important. 

Lip shrugs and turns to move towards the door. Fiona stops him with a hand on his forearm and a stern glare. “I’m serious Lip. Tell me what he’s gotten himself into,” she demands.

“It’s nothing Fi. He’s fine.” His voice is steady and calm. But, that doesn’t matter because Fiona could always see through him, the same way that he could always see through Ian. He figures it must be an older sibling thing because it feels too natural to be anything else, to be anything but DNA.

“Bullshit. His moods are all over the place, he’s inviting Mickey Milkovich to sleepovers, and now he’s sneaking out of the house again? Something is up and I wanna know what it is,” she snaps. 

“Ask him yourself,” Lip evades. 

“He’ll just do that thing where he gets all quiet and passive. Then he’ll smile and tell me he’s fine but I’ll know he’s lying, and we’ll both walk away feeling like shit. I’m not dealing with that Lip.” Her tone is firm and final, and Lip knows she’s serious.

“Why is this my fucking problem again?” he sighs. 

“Because it’s your job to look out for Ian and it’s his job to look out for you. That’s the way it is so get over it!” she exclaims, shoving his shoulder roughly.

She was right. He and Ian had always looked out for each other. Their memories and lives were so intertwined that they didn’t know how to be any other way. 

“Fuck!” he grunts, rubbing his arm. “I am looking out for him, okay? He’s fine.” He wants to tell Fiona everything because he hates keeping secrets. But this isn’t his secret to tell. 

“I don’t believe you,” she says. “He snuck out of the house last night and I have no fucking idea where he is right now. But you do and you’re going to tell me.” 

“Jesus, why are we even having this conversation? You know I’m not gonna nark on him,” he crosses his arms defiantly. 

“Even if it’s for his own good?” she challenges. It was a low blow and it made Lip realize just how worried she was. 

“Look, Ian had a rough couple of weeks. I’m not gonna lie, I was worried for a while,” he admits. “But I think things are getting better. He’s doing better. I promise,” he adds leaning forward to catch her eye. She looks at him for a long moment before nodding reluctantly and letting out a sigh.

Lip knows that Ian is keeping so many secrets because he wants to protect Mickey. And Lip is helping keep those secrets because he will always have Ian’s back. But the startling reality of the situation is that he also has Mickey’s back by extension. The thought makes his skin crawl uncomfortably but it doesn’t exactly horrify him like it once would have. It’s not like Lip is happy that his little brother is screwing the nastiest thug in the Southside. He kind of fucking hates it. But maybe he’s starting to hate it a little less, or at least understand it a little more.

“I still wish he’d talk to me,” she mutters, head hung in defeat. 

“He will when he’s ready. You know Ian,” Lip shrugs.

“I’m kinda starting to feel like I don’t,” she frowns. Lip pulls her to his chest and hugs her gently. 

She looks up at him wearily and he feels something inside of his chest tighten. “You know Ian,” he insists. 

He can see the worry in her eyes and he knows how she feels. Because, Ian hides so much of his life that sometimes it feels like he’s hiding himself.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knows this is where he should stop pushing. But he’s too hurt, too frustrated, too beyond caring. Instead he pushes harder; punching through the invisible walls they’ve built to protect their fragile calm, and shattering them like glass.

Fiona doesn’t like feeling weak, in fact there’s nothing she likes less. And she really does dislike a lot of things. 

She hates grape flavored popsicles and sticky heat. She avoids mirrors on the days when her hair runs thick with tangles. And she would rather ride The L than ride in a car any day.

The L was dependable, reliable and honest. It didn’t hide what it was with smooth paint or shiny wax. Filled with good people and bad people, and everything in between, the L was real and right. Fiona liked the cold, dirty seats and the echo of screaming toddlers. She even liked the waiting and the watching, because at least it wasn’t promising to be something else, something more.

Fiona doesn’t like riding in cars. Cars are fast and free, and the open road is long enough that she can imagine soaring into forever. But forever is the kind of word used in fairytales and Fiona knows that her life is far from a fairytale. Pretending it is one is only stupid, weak. 

Fiona hates feeling weak.

“No more bull shit Ian,” she levels. He meets her steady gaze as his hand fidgets with the door knob, and for a second Fiona thinks that he might turn around and walk right out.

“Sorry I didn’t call. Lip was supposed to tell you that I was staying at a friend’s house,” he explains casually. It hits her then, how easy it had become for Ian to lie. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t stutter, the words just spill from his mouth with practiced accuracy.

Taking care of her family makes Fiona feel stronger. She hates the dizzy sweep of air threatening to knock her over when she realizes that, she doesn’t know how to take care of Ian anymore. She feels weak, so fucking weak. 

“I said no more bullshit. Sit down.” She can’t duck her head in the sand and wait for Lip to tell her Ian is okay. She can’t pretend not to notice the broken smiles and halfhearted excuses. The time for weakness has come and gone, it was time to be strong for her brother.

“You’re angry at me,” Ian states. His brows furrow, and Fiona doesn’t know if he’s confused or upset. It kills her that she can’t tell the difference.

“I’m worried about you Ian. I’m really worried,” she says. His expression softens and he takes the seat next to her at the kitchen table. 

“There’s nothing to worry about Fiona. I’m doing okay. I promise,” he smiles slightly. Her eyes prick with tears when he rubs her arm carefully. She feels grounded and whole, because her brother is right in front of her and he’s safe. He’s talking to her, he’s touching her, and he’s in one piece. 

She can’t remember the last time she knew for certain, that Ian was safe. Not really.

“Well I’m not doing okay,” she sniffs. His mouth opens in surprise and he grips her arm a little more firmly. “I’m not doing fine because I have no idea what’s going on in my little brother’s life,” she adds, blinking away the moisture in her eyes.

“I just, Fiona I don’t know what to say,” he shrugs slowly, helplessly. 

“Something; say something Ian. I feel like you never talk to me, and maybe that’s my fault!” she exclaims, eyes wide and serious.

“No, no it’s not your fault. It’s just hard, you know?” he drops his gaze to the table, studying it distractedly. 

“You can tell me anything. I know you like to keep things to yourself, always have. And that’s okay but, sometimes I need you to talk to me. You have Lip and I’m glad that the two of you are so close, but I love you too. You’re my brother too…” Her lip quivers and she bites the inside of her cheek because she doesn’t want to cry.

Ian’s eyes snap up and there is guilt swimming in his green orbs. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he repeats brokenly. 

“You don’t have to be sorry kiddo.” She shakes her head, reaching out to cup his cheek gently. 

“I honestly don’t even know where to start Fi,” he admits. 

“Why don’t you start where it hurts,” she says, rubbing her thumb against his cheek one last time before dropping her hand. 

He takes a deep breath and swallows hard. “I’m in love with Mickey,” he whispers. 

She’s suddenly catapulted back in time, watching Ian throw pieces of paper at Frank’s unconscious form in their dark living room. The way his voice had sliced into the quiet, echoed in her mind. “He hates me,” it wasn’t wonder or hesitance that had laced his tone. It was acceptance, belief. 

And in their bright sunlit kitchen, as Ian tells her that he’s in love with an unlovable boy, she hears the same ringing of belief. The words are different, but everything else is the same. 

“Shit,” she exhales. 

“Yeah, shit…” he repeats knowingly.

Fiona feels her heart ache painfully for her brother but she can’t find the words to comfort him as she once could. Mickey isn’t Frank, and being in love isn’t the same as being hated. But she knows that Ian doesn’t know how to deal with either. They both hurt too damn much. 

. . .

Ian’s cheeks burn with satisfaction as he pulls his pants over his slender hips. 

Its early evening and he had promised Fiona he would be home before dark that night. The afternoon had passed slowly, the minutes feeling empty and lonely. And it didn’t make sense because he had seen Mickey that morning, spent the entire night before with his body pressed close. But, Ian needed to see him again.

He pauses hesitantly and lets himself stare at the plains of Mickey’s body, outlined beneath the thin sheets. He thinks of the grime that sometimes clusters under his fingernails. He thinks of hopeless arguments and worn skin, stuttered heartbeats and aggressive silence. He thinks of all the ways that something ugly can become beautiful...

A tremor threatens his voice when he finally speaks, “So um, Fiona knows about us.” He’s aiming for casual but Mickey snaps his head towards Ian, standing up slowly with only boxers covering his sturdy frame.

“What?” he bites. 

Wringing his shirt in his hands nervously, Ian tries to hold Mickey’s frantic gaze. “She’s been asking a lot of questions lately and I just, I told her.” 

“What the fuck Gallagher!” Mickey steps forward almost threateningly and Ian forces himself not to flinch. 

“I didn’t tell her like, everything. But she’s my sister. She wanted to know what was going on with me and I had to tell her,” he explains. His voice sounds desperate even to his own earns and he fucking hates it.

“No you had to be a pussy, that’s what you had to do. Just like fucking always!” he accuses, jabbing Ian in the chest with his finger. Ian swats his hand away, because he’s sick of forcing himself not to flinch when they should be past that. He’s sick of hating the sound of his own voice and he’s sick of letting Mickey control everything. 

Before Terry had caught them, Ian had felt like he and Mickey were equals. The ground beneath them was level and strong, they had figured out a sort of balance and comfortably. But since then Mickey’s world had been spiraling out of control and Ian had only wanted to help him. He had given him the control that Terry had ripped it away so violently. He had given him everything he had, because all he wanted was for Mickey to be okay. 

But, Ian was starting to realize that he needed to be okay too. 

“She isn’t going to tell anyone. You know she isn’t,” he says.

“That’s not the point. It isn’t any of her goddamn business,” Mickey yells. His voice is more panicked than angry and Ian almost gives in. He almost apologizes and sooths, but he doesn’t. The resolve flows thick though his veins and he knows that he can’t back down, not this time. 

“It’s not that big of a deal,” he reasons.

“Are you retarded?” Mickey scoffs. 

His attitude has Ian’s skin prickling with fire. Every move Mickey makes tells him that he should stop pushing, but his body rages with the need to fight. He’s too hurt and too frustrated, so he pushes harder. Punching through the invisible walls that they’ve built to protect their fragile calm, he shatters them like glass. 

The next words slip from his lips like venom, “I think that we should tell Mandy,” he says. It’s a dare that Ian knows Mickey will never accept. It’s vengeful and bitter, it’s everything that he has been holding inside.

“Fuck you.” His laughter is raw and acidic. “Is that your way of saying, yes you are retarded? Because only a retarded person would say something like that,” he sneers. 

“She’s my best friend and she’s your sister,” Ian snaps.

“I know that. Jesus, I fucking know!” he says, pulling at his hair roughly.

“If she finds out some other way she’s gonna feel like shit,” he yells. 

Mickey’s eyes turn hard and he clenches his jaw. “She’s not gonna find out at all,” he says. 

“Wouldn’t it just be easier if she knew?” For Ian it would be easier but, for Mickey it would be something more. It would be something he wasn’t ready to face yet.

“No,” he grinds. 

“Come on Mickey, if we’re going to keep doing this…” Ian is shaking his head in disappointment before the words can settle in the air. There’s a look in Mickey’s eyes that he recognize all too well. It’s the look that says he’s going to tear something down, something he probably helped build.

“Well maybe we shouldn’t keep doing this. Maybe you should just get the fuck out of my house. And get the fuck out of my life while you’re at it,” he barks.

Ian had been expecting this, he had pushed for it. But it still hurts. 

“I wanna be with you,” he swallows. “Let me know when you grow the balls to admit that you feel the same way. Until then, fuck you!” He lets his shirt fall to the ground and walks backwards to the door, his eyes locked onto Mickey’s the entire time. 

Ian isn’t giving up on Mickey. He isn’t even trying to hurt him. But, he can’t help him be okay when he isn’t even okay himself. There’s something dangerous inside of him, something terrible and heavy. It had carried him all the way to the recruitment center after Mickey had been arrested. It had held Lip’s skull along the tile of the bathtub, threatening to spray blood across the walls. It was quiet and hidden, and nothing could bring it to the surface the way that Mickey could.

Something inside of him breaks when he walks away from Mickey. He’s never done that before and, it feels as bad as it does good. Ian knows that Mickey cares about him, but sometime he doesn’t trust that. Sometimes he doesn’t trust his own feelings because of that dangerous weight hovering below the surface, making him crazy and reckless. He loves Mickey too much to think straight and when he forces himself to walk away, every cell in his body screams out.

Mickey has given him as much as he thinks he can, but Ian still needs more.


	10. Chapter 10

Mickey is broken but, he doesn’t want to be treated like he’s breakable. 

He almost lets out a sigh of relief when Ian finally stops being careful with him. Careful is for the weak and the fragile. He wants to scream and he wants someone to scream at him. So when Ian slams his bedroom door, Mickey doesn’t know whether to smile or hit something. He does both.

There are a lot of things that Mickey doesn’t know, a lot of things that he doesn’t understand. But he knows that he wants Ian to come back. It scares him because it might be the only thing he does know, the only thing that settles his bones with certainty. But knowing and understanding are two entirely different things. Mickey doesn’t understand why he misses Ian only seconds after he walks out the door. He doesn’t want to understand either.

For two full days, Mickey contemplates running. He doesn’t know if he’d be running to Ian or from him, but he knows that he wants to run, far and fast. He wants to feel the pavement beneath his feet and the air squeezing out of his lungs. His skin itches with anxiety and he feels restless with need because, the house is too quiet. Ian’s words echo in his mind, “… if we’re going to keep doing this,” his eyes had pleaded with Mickey. And when he thought about it, Ian never really asked for much. He wanted everything but he didn’t ask for anything, not really. He took what Mickey was willing to give and he held on tight. 

He didn’t let go; until he did. 

The silence rings in Mickey’s ears with honesty. They couldn’t keep hiding from the people closest to them if they were going to move forward. And he knew that Ian wanted to move forward, needed to move forward. They had been tip toeing towards something bigger and it had felt right. It had felt right in a way that other things never did. But Mickey didn’t know what he was supposed to do with right.

Right didn’t belong in his life, it never had. 

“Hey douche-bag, get the fucking door! I’m still getting ready,” Mandy screeches. 

The sound of knocking had failed to register in Mickey’s mind, muffled by his deafening thoughts. It was the day of his father’s funeral and he felt like maybe he was going crazy. He was unable to shake the stench of loss that seemed to cling to his skin. And though his father was dead, it was Ian that he was missing. 

His heart picks up speed when he opens to door to red hair and freckles. “What are you doing here?” he asks. 

“Mandy wants me to stand with her at the funeral,” Ian explains carefully. Mickey wants to hit him because he thought they were done being careful. 

“Christ, of course she does,” he says, rolling his eyes. 

Mandy liked to hide behind a dark layer of eyeliner and crazy, but she didn’t know how to hide the way she loved Ian Gallagher. It took all of five seconds for Mickey to figure it out the first time he ever saw them together. Ian was painfully oblivious and it hurt to watch, it hurt to understand. There were a lot of things that Mickey didn’t understand. He wished like hell that Mandy’s feelings for Ian were one of those things but, they weren’t. 

“Is she home?” he wonders.

“She’s still getting ready,” Mickey forces a shrug. He wants to first his hands in Ian’s shirt to pull him close and then push him away. But he knows that he’s done that before, maybe it’s all he’s ever done.

“You’re not gonna let me in, are you?” Ian offers a sad, knowing smile. It’s then that Mickey realizes Ian isn’t being careful with him. Ian is being careful with himself. 

“Not really.” He means to say, not now, not yet. But he thinks Ian might hear the real answer regardless. The ass hole has always been good at that, hearing the things that Mickey doesn’t even know he means. He still doesn’t understand why Ian even bothers listening. No one else ever had.

“Right,” he nods. They avoid eye contract but neither attempts to move from their spot. “It’s kind of weird going to Terry’s funeral, isn’t it? I know he wouldn’t want me there. But Mandy needs me so…” he trails off uncomfortably, shifting from foot to foot.

“Can’t let Mandy down,” Mickey utters bitterly. Because Ian is probably the one thing he’s ever wanted, and it figures that Mandy had him first. It figures that she knew how to love him better.

“Look I know you don’t need anyone, especially me or whatever. But this whole thing is probably going to be pretty fucked up for you. So I’m here, you know?” he says. 

Mickey considers shutting the door in his face; he considers swallowing his words in a kiss. Ultimately it’s the sincerity of his words that stop him short. He can’t help but offer Ian the same honesty in return. 

With a shuddering breath he says, “I’m not going.” Ian stares at him in question and he continues, “The funeral, I’m not going.” Looking up he expects to see disappointment or disgust in Ian’s wide eyes, but he find neither. 

“Shit. I guess, yeah I guess I kind of thought you might say that,” he says. There’s something unreadable in his tone and Mickey spends more time than he’d like to admit trying to decipher it. “I mean obviously you’re gonna do whatever you want but, maybe you should go.” 

“You really think I should go, after everything?” he challenges.

“Fuck, I don’t know Mickey. I’ve never buried someone I love, or someone I hate. I have no fucking idea what you should do,” he admits, rubbing a hand over his face. 

“Yeah, me either,” he mumbles. 

Ian looks guilty, like it’s his fault that Mickey doesn’t know what to do. Like, it’s his job to have all of the answers. He cares too damn much about everything and everyone, and Mickey will never stop being terrified of that.

“You should probably just do what you want,” Ian says eventually. “What you really want. Forget what I said before, forget what everyone else says. Just do what you want because, I think that’s the right thing,” he finishes. 

Air fills Mickey’s lungs in place of the horrible weight that had been crushing down on his chest, threatening to press him into the ground right next to his father. In that moment, Ian’s words lift that weight just enough for Mickey to breathe again. 

“Didn’t really expect to hear you say that Gallagher,” he exhales. Their last conversation had been heated and angry. He had expected the residue to seep into everything and infect what was left. Instead it felt weightless and free. They had said what they needed to say and they knew where they stood with each other. When Ian had walked out Mickey had felt helpless and low. But standing in front of him rawer than ever before, he felt the promise of possibility and hope. 

“We gotta stop trying to control each other sometime Mick. It’s not good for either of us,” he says softly. 

“I never tried to control you,” he denies.

“You’ve been trying to control how I feel about you from the very beginning,” Ian says, shaking his head. “Because, it’s too much and it freaks you out. And I get that, I get it. But I can’t keep pushing shit down.” 

Mickey does get that. He gets what it’s like to shove everything down so deep that you feel like you might get pulled under with it. It’s all he’s ever known. 

“So what, what does that mean?” he asks. 

“Fuck if I know. I guess just, get through burying Terry, and then we’ll figure the rest out,” he shrugs. Nodding his head and shoving his hands in his pockets, he listens as Ian begins to speak again. “And uh, if you decide not to go to the funeral, don’t worry about Mandy. I’ll take care of her.” 

“I know you will.” He isn’t bitter this time, he’s resigned. He knows that it will always come back around to Mandy because, it had started with her. 

Ian looks at him hesitantly before taking a deep breath, “I’m sorry,” he says. His voice is quiet and guarded but his eyes are as open as they’ve ever been.

“What are you sorry for Gallagher?” Mickey’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. 

“The whole, fuck you, grow some balls, thing. It was probably a little dramatic,” he says, blushing.

“You think?” he smirks, hating the way his heart fucking flutters. It’s disgusting and it’s embarrassing, and he’s knows it isn’t going to go away. 

“I still meant what I said even though I should have found a better way to say it. I can’t be with you until you’re sure that you want to be with me too. Like, for real…” he swallows thickly. 

Mickey’s heart jumps to his throat and all of the things he’s too scared to say linger at the tip of his tongue. “Oh,” he says instead. 

“I’m not saying that we should wave a rainbow flag and skip down town holding hands. You uh, you know what I want Mick. So just think about what you want, and when you figure that out come find me,” he smiles almost hopefully. 

“Fuck, I’m not good at this Fire-crotch,” he curses.

“I’m not asking you to be good at it. Just find me when you’re ready, okay?” he smiles a little wider, a little less unsure.

“Okay,” he nods. His voice is horse and timid, but he means what he’s saying. 

Mickey will find Ian when he figures his shit out. He’ll probably find him even if he doesn’t. Even when he isn’t looking, even when he’s hiding, he always finds Ian.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It doesn’t make sense, because Mickey hates being touched. He hates being directed and handled. He hates people, but he’s tolerating Ian. More than tolerating because, Mandy swears she sees him lean into the touch.

Mandy was her father’s favorite.

Her brothers had always resented her for that fact, just as much as they had defended her. But she never wanted to be the favorite. It meant something different than anyone thought; something dirty and painful. She tried to be invisible, like Mickey and Iggy could sometimes get away with. But you can’t be invisible when you’re the favorite. 

She was fifteen years old, with pink streaks running through her hair, when she decided that she wanted to be Ian Gallagher’s favorite. With his wide grin and gentle eyes, he had given her the kind of attention that no one else ever had. Ian was different and special, and Mandy liked being important to him. Sometimes she even liked being his best friend better than being his girlfriend. She still wished that she could kiss him or make him hard and needy, but really anyone could be a girlfriend. A best friend was more important, and the word best was just like the word favorite.

“Hey, thank you for coming with me today. I know my dad was a shithead to you but…” she trails off and shrugs helplessly. Terry was a shithead to everyone, and she wasn’t about to make excuses or apologize on his behalf. 

“He was a shithead to you too,” Ian says. He bumps her shoulder with his own and it’s almost like he can read her mind. “But he’s gone now. Let’s leave the past in the past and focus on getting drunk. Okay?” he smiles comfortingly. 

Mandy grins and wraps her arms around his waist. She knows that she’s slipping into old patterns, letting herself feel things that she shouldn’t, things that she was supposed to have buried in Ian’s brother. But she’s sort of a mess and Ian is the only one who’s ever accepted her that way.

“Okay,” she nods. 

He’s handing her a tall glass of beer when she hears someone curse in the distance. “What’s up douche-bags?” Mickey says, sauntering towards the bar and staring pointedly at her hold on Ian. “You still Gallagher hopping? That’s a creepy kink you got going Mands.” He shakes his head and snatches the beer our of her hand.

“Fuck off Mickey. You skip out on dad’s funeral, but you show up for the cheap drinks. And your judging me?” She raises a challenging eyebrow but, Mickey only smirks.

“It seemed appropriate,” he says, gulping the beer hurriedly.

“Real classy,” she grimaces.

“Don’t talk to me about class skank.” He dips his fingers into the glass and flicks a few droplets towards the cleavage bearing neck of her top. 

Ian snatches the drink from Mickey’s hand and Mandy watches her brother’s face grow dark for a moment before twisting in annoyance. “That’s enough sibling love for tonight. Why don’t we get you both something a little stronger,” Ian offers, nodding his head towards the other end of the bar where Kevin is pouring a round of shots.

“Well I’m not gonna argue with that,” Mickey says.

They make their way towards the small group and Lip hands them each a clear shot. “Cheers to safer streets and good night sleeps?” Lip offers.

“I’ll drink to that,” Mandy mutters. 

“Here, here,” Ian nods, clinking his glass with her own. She’s throwing her head back and downing the alcohol when she sees him clink his glass gently against Mickey’s out of the corner of her eye. Her brother shoots the redhead something resembling a smile before they both down their drinks readily.

She doesn’t have time to wonder what the interaction had meant because, Joey is shoving her to the side and grabbing Mickey’s arm. “Where the fuck have you been?” he shouts.

“Get off of me,” Mickey says, pulling his arm away roughly.

“What, you too busy banging fat chicks to go to your own father’s funeral?” he sneers. Joey had always been the closest to Terry. He was the oldest and he’d been brainwashed by their father’s poison the longest. Mandy thought he was looking more and more like Terry every day, and she sort of hated him for it.

“Too busy doing anything else,” he says. “Like I’d waste another minute on that piece of shit,” he adds stubbornly. Mandy sees the punch coming before Joey even clenches his fist. But Mickey does too, and he dodges the hit, shoving Joey away from the bar. 

“You’re an ungrateful son of a bitch. No wonder dad fucking hated you.” Joey lands a hit to the side of Mickey’s jaw and grabs a fist full of his shirt. “You probably weren’t even his, probably belong to some asshole our whore of a mother was doing on the side,” he spits.

“Fuck you!” Mickey shouts, head butting Joey solidly. The crunch of his nose spurs Mandy forward, and she sees Iggy approaching from the other side of the room. 

“Guys, stop it. Enough,” she yells. 

They don’t hear her over the rush of adrenaline and they both spring forward for more. There's blood dripping from Joey's nose and onto his teeth as he bares them with a predatory grunt. Mickey’s eyes are hot with rage and even though he’s smaller than Joey, Mandy knows that his fire is bigger. He’s a scrapper, always has been. 

“Hey, chill the fuck out,” Ian intervenes. He takes Mandy by the arm and hands her off to Lip. She’s kind of pissed about the gesture, but kind of touched at the same time. 

“Jesus Christ,” Iggy curses, grabbing at Joey’s arm. Mickey keeps swinging, landing punch after punch. Iggy casts a look towards him but shakes his head and reaches for Joey again.

“Alright, alright…” Ian moves towards Mickey, and Mandy feels Lip's fingers tense around her arm. “Mickey!” he yells, pushing against his shoulder and moving to catch his eye. 

His frantic lashes slow and he looks at Ian in surprise. Mandy holds her breath when Ian rests a hand against his chest and pushes him backwards fluidly. Eyes darting wildly, he lets Ian lead him away.

“We’re gonna get some air,” Ian calls over his shoulder, his eyes finding Lip. 

“You sure you’re good?” Lip asks. 

“Yeah, I got this,” he nods, gripping the back of Mickey’s neck and turning him towards the door. And it doesn’t make sense, because Mickey hates being touched. He hates being directed and handled. He hates people, but he’s tolerating Ian. More than tolerating because, Mandy swears she sees him lean into the touch. 

“Get your ass to the bathroom Joey. You’re bleeding all over my bar,” Kevin says, tossing him a towel. Iggy catches the cloth and hands it to Joey before shoving him forward. He flips him off casually but makes his way towards the bathroom without a word. 

“What the fuck…” Mandy breathes, rubbing her eyes tiredly. She doesn’t like seeing her brothers fight, not with each other, not at all. It reminds her of her father and the way his anger was constant and immobilizing. 

Iggy flicks her forehead casually as he moves to follow Joey. “So uh, it looks like your boyfriend isn’t a complete pussy after all. It took some balls to step in between that shit show,” he smirks.

“What would you know about balls?” She doesn’t bother to correct him about Ian being her boyfriend because, every once in a while she still likes to pretend.

“Yeah, yeah, hilarious,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Just tell Gallagher thank you or whatever. Things probably would have gotten pretty ugly if he hadn’t calmed Mickey down. No fucking idea how he managed to do it but, he’s alright I guess.” 

Iggy was always the softest. He wasn’t the best, he wasn’t her favorite but, he was the softest. He was usually too caught up in drugs and getting high to get bloody like Mickey and Joey. When Mandy was eleven her father had broken every finger on Iggy’s left hand. He had done it slowly, grinning with the crunch of each bone. It was a consequence for getting caught swiping cheap whiskey and a key chain bottle opener with Mandy in tow.

The bottle opener had been her idea, but Terry had only patted her cheek with one hand while gripping Iggy’s throat in the other. She remembers watching in morbid fascination, a mixture of guilt and superiority swirling in her gut. Her father had protected her from everything, but nothing had protected her from him. She knows that her brothers hadn’t been protected either. They had all been damaged in different ways by the same man. 

“Joey is the one who should be thanking him. Mickey was homicidal,” she chuckles bitterly. 

“I know. He was out for blood. I’m surprised your boy didn’t lose a limb getting in the middle of that,” he mentions. And Mandy doesn’t say it but, she’s surprised too.

When Iggy finally walks away, she lets herself sink onto a bar-stool and deflate. She doesn’t understand what’s going on between Mickey and Ian, but she knows there’s something. Maybe there had been for a while now and she had just been too immersed in Lip to see it. But she was orbiting around Ian again, clinging to him, wondering when the hell her brother had fallen into his orbit as well and how she had missed it. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she mutters. 

It’s not like she’s stupid, she’s just a little single minded sometimes. But now her mind is on Ian, it’s on Mickey and Ian. And suddenly a million things are running through her head and she can’t slow her brain down enough to even figure out the right questions to ask. 

She buried her father today, but she thinks she might have uncovered something a lot bigger.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Come on Fire-crotch,” he mumbles, tugging on Ian’s shirt nervously. He used to recoil into himself when he was nervous, pull away and hide. But now, he reaches for Ian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last couple of chapters have been somewhat inspired by the song Jumper (Third Eye Blind). It's a really great song that reminds me of Mickey/Ian and you should all check it out. Please keep the comments coming, I love getting your feed back. Thank you!

Mickey grips his lighter in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

He doesn’t pocket the lighter because, if his hand is free he might do something ridiculous like reach for Ian. Nothing about hand holding appeals to him but, he gets anxious when he’s around Ian and not touching him. It’s inconvenient in the way that most things concerning the redhead are. He’s learning to swallow the inconveniences, grit his teeth and bare them. It could be worse, it could be Ian turning his back and walking out the door again. 

“How’s your face?” Ian asks, reaching out for the cigarette and tilting his head to inspect his jaw. Mickey inhales a puff of smoke before casually handing it off to Ian. 

“Joey hits like a fucking girl,” he scoffs.

“I doubt he’s saying the same about you. I think you broke his nose,” he mentions, passing the cigarette back.

“He shouldn’t have come at me. You shouldn’t have either by the way dumb-ass,” he says pointedly. “You’re lucky your hair is so goddamn bright or I might have swung at you,” he adds. When his fists were flying and his veins were rushing with anger, that flash of red had pushed through his vision and stopped him almost immediately. 

“I kind of expected you to swing anyway,” Ian shrugs carelessly. 

“Well then you’re a real idiot,” he snorts. 

“I really am,” he agrees softly. Mickey isn’t sure what to say to that, so he knocks his hand against Ian’s and pretends that it’s an accident. “Hey, I’m sorry if I pushed you too hard about Mandy. That wasn’t what I was trying to do. I uh, I get that your family is different than mine.” 

His face is so damn open and sincere that Mickey has to look away. “Whatever,” he mumbles, tossing the cigarette onto the ground and stomping on the embers. 

“Fiona was just really hurt about how much I was keeping from her, and I think Mandy would be too. But I’m not going to tell her, she’s your sister and it’s your decision. Just, at least just think about it, okay?” he asks. 

Mickey sighs and offers Ian an anxious glace. “Will you stop using your dick as some kind of bargaining chip if I say I will?” 

“That’s not what I’m doing dumb-ass,” Ian chuckles, full and heartfelt. 

“Oh, please! You don’t get your way so, you throw a tantrum and take your dick away from me as punishment,” he scoffs. He feels laughter bubbling in his chest and he breathes deep, letting the air sink into his bones. He feels whole and solid, walking under the dark sky of the baseball field with Gallagher by his side. 

“It’s been like two days!” Ian exclaims, eyes wide and sparkling. And Mickey thinks it’s really stupid that his eyes actually sparkle. How the fuck is that even possible?

He shoves Ian’s shoulder and doges the retaliating swat. “Fuck you. It’s been three,” he says. 

“Counting the days, huh? You really want me that bad…” he grins smugly. Mickey can’t decide if he wants to punch the look off of his face or kiss it. 

“Not you, just your dick,” he shrugs. They shuffle into the dugout and lean side by side against the wall, both fighting the smiles tugging at their lips. 

“Ass-hole,” Ian breaths a low chuckle, and shakes his head. He pulls Mickey in front of him by the waist of his pants and flicks the button open expertly. “What about my hands?” he asks. He slides one hand into Mickey’s boxers, gripping him firmly. 

“Yeah, they’re alright,” he exhales harshly. The tip of his tongue pokes against the side of his mouth and a stuttered moan rises in his throat.

“And my mouth, what was it you said before?” he whispers, dipping his head to brush a kiss against the blooming bruise on Mickey’s jawline. He dances his lips across the pale expanse of skin, and moves suck gently at his neck.

“Fuck off,” he swallows.

“Just a warm mouth,” Ian mutters against his pulse point. 

Something inside of him crashes down, and he has to stop himself from physically shaking. It feels like a hundred years ago that he had spit those biting words at Ian. It unnerves him that the redhead still remembers them, maybe even believes them. 

“You know that I, you know shithead. You know…” he groans. 

“Will you just say it? I’ll fuck you either way but just, will you admit it?” Ian pulls back slightly, angling his head to look him right in the eye. It hurts too much to look away, because Mickey has always been a glutton for punishment. 

“Come on Fire-crotch,” he mumbles, tugging on Ian’s shirt nervously. He used to recoil into himself when he was nervous, pull away and hide. But now, he reaches for Ian. 

“I wanna hear it, just for tonight. Please Mick,” he whispers. 

“I want you. Fuck, I always want you,” he sighs helplessly. “It’s sick and stupid, and I hate it. Okay? Are you happy now?” he grunts.

Ian is grinning wide, and Mickey almost doesn’t regret the words. “After I fuck you right against this wall, come back to my house. I’ll blow you if no one is home yet and you can stay the night,” he unbuttons his own jeans and shoves them to the ground.

“No fucking thanks,” Mickey says grimly. “To the last part I mean. You can blow me whenever you want Gallagher,” he smirks.

“Joey’s pissed at you. We have an extra bed so just, just stay over,” he reasons. “It’ll only seem weird if you act weird about it,” he adds.

“Sounds like a pretty bad idea,” he scoffs. 

Turning him roughly against the wall, Ian shoves his pants and boxers down in one swift motion before speaking hotly into his ear, “I’m really good at bad ideas,” he breathes. 

“Oh yeah, is that what I am?” he shivers.

“You’re the worst idea I’ve ever had Mick,” he says, tongue licking along the shell of his ear. 

And fuck it, Mickey is good at bad ideas too. Bad ideas are his bread and butter. If Ian keeps touching him like that, he’ll gladly make some poor decisions for the record books. It’s not like he isn’t fucked for life anyways. He might as well enjoy the ride while it lasts. 

. . .

Lip is pretty happy. Correction, Lip is pretty drunk.

He had downed beer after beer, and shot after shot. He had chugged until he couldn’t quite remember why he was worried about his brother. He had drunk until he couldn’t remember what the fuck a Milkovich was or why the name grated at his nerves. 

“Is something going on between Ian and Mickey?” Mandy’s voice penetrates his pleasant bubble and he groans. She wobbles over to the stool next to him and falls into it gracelessly. 

“What?” he asks.

“Mickey and Ian,” she slurs. Now that he thinks about it, she had been drinking pretty hard all night. “I’m not stupid, okay? I know something is going on,” she explains.

It takes him a minute to wrack his brain and sort out what she’s saying. He can’t remember who knows what at this point, and in his hazy state of mind it’s all a little confusing. But, he’s pretty sure Mandy doesn’t officially know that her brother is fucking her best friend. And he’s pretty sure that is imperative for things to stay that way. 

“They work together at the store, right?” he says, playing dumb. “Or did Mickey get fired?”

“Look, I’m not in the mood for your bullshit. I’ve been thinking about this for like, four rum and cokes now,” she begins. “And either Mickey has gotten Ian into dealing, or they’re fucking. Which one is it?” she demands. 

Lip is stunned silent for a moment. He opens his mouth hesitantly before plastering a fake look of consideration across his face. “You know what? Ian’s eyes have been a little more blood shot lately. And he’s had a little more cash on him so, yeah. Maybe you’re onto something.”

“Holy shit!” Mandy’s eyes widen in surprise. “They’re fucking?” she chokes. 

He doesn’t really like lying, but he’s usually better at it than this. He takes a moment to be vaguely disappointed in himself before wincing at the fact that Mandy actually knows. She looks shell shocked and panicked, like nothing in the world makes sense anymore. Lip gets that. The fact that his little brother fucks Mickey Milkovich on a regular basis is pretty jaw dropping. He reaches for his glass but, Mandy already has her fingers gripping the beverage as she chugs it furiously.

Lip signals for another drink. He wants to be firmly incoherent when shit hits the fan.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Debbie can’t see Ian, but she imagines that his green eyes are pleading. She doesn’t know much about sex, or love for that matter, but she knows about hurt. And she can hear it in everyone’s voices as they tiptoe around something painful and real.

Ian blindly reaches for Mickey, his hand twisting through a mess of sheets and blankets.

Blinking his eyes open blearily, he finds himself alone. For a moment he wonders if he had been dreaming. He wonders if the way Mickey had let him tug at the tips of his fingers as they walked through deserted streets, had been something his mind had tricked him into believing. 

“Fucking, fuck…” A husky mumble cracks through the thick silence, and Ian blinks until his vision clears. Mickey is sleeping soundly on the bottom bunk of the beds across the room. 

The gears in his mind click into place as he remembers everything. After two rounds in the baseball dug out, they had stumbled to the Gallagher house in exhaustion and delirium. Buzzed from the joint they had shared and each other, the walk home had been filled with soft glances and subtle touches. They had fallen into separate beds after a few sloppy kisses, backed by the thrum of Carl’s snores. Ian had itched to pull Mickey into bed with him, but he’d resisted. Being able to watch him across the room as he’d fallen asleep had been enough. 

“Ian!” Carl crashes through the door gracelessly. “Fiona wants to know if you’re coming down for breakfast. And Debbie wants to know if Mickey Milkovich is going to be sleeping over all the time now, like Mandy. Hey, has he ever killed someone before?” he rambles breathlessly. 

“I’m gonna have him kill you if you don’t stop asking so many questions,” Ian grumbles, sitting up slowly. “Tell Fiona that I’ll be down in a second,” he adds.

“Alright fine, but ask him if he’s killed anyone!” he calls, slamming the door and barreling down the stairs. 

Mickey groans loudly, stretching his arms above his head but squeezing his eyes shut tightly. Ian smiles at the childish pout forming on his face. “Your whole fucking family is just as annoying as you are,” he croaks. 

“Liam’s not so bad. You’d probably like him, he doesn’t talk,” he grins, pulling on a pair of sweatpants. He walks across the room and drops next to Mickey on the bed, checking to make sure the door is firmly closed. He leans down and presses a kiss to the ex con’s cheek.

“Fuck off,” he grunts. Ian laughs against his skin and slides damp kisses along his bruised jaw. A low hum rumbles in Mickey’s throat as Ian moves his lips downward. “You’re so fucking clingy,” he says. He follows his complaint by splaying a hand across Ian’s back and pulling him closer. 

“Yeah, I can see how much you hate it,” he smirks, pulling back to grin at the older boy. “We should head downstairs. I think Fiona is making pancakes.” 

When he moves to get up, Mickey wraps a hand around his wrist and holds him in place. He tugs until Ian moves close enough for him to grip his neck and pull him down for a soft kiss. “Thanks,” he mutters, eyes still closed. 

Ian doesn’t ask what Mickey is thanking him for, he doesn’t need to. 

. . .

Debbie is nervous and jittery, hands fidgeting with her fork as she pushes it through sticky syrup. 

She looks across the table and watches Ian knock his elbow with none other than Mickey Milkovich. Her face must give away her uneasiness because Fiona looks at her in concern. “You okay Debs?” she asks. Nodding hurriedly, she stuffs a chunk of pancake into her mouth and chews slowly. 

She has heard stories about the youngest Milkovich boy, terrible stories. He was loud and brash, violent and unpredictable. He was the boy that people were afraid of. Nothing about his friendship with Ian made sense, and Debbie couldn’t help but be weary. Her bright, warm, gentle brother was friends with the neighborhood nightmare. 

But she isn’t stupid; she knows that there’s more to the story. 

“Hey! Get outta here Mickey.” Ian chuckles as Mickey steals a piece of food from his plate. He knocks his fork out of the way and shoves him with his shoulder. They’re sitting closer than Debbie has ever seen a person get to Mickey on purpose. The proximity should be unsettling but Ian looks relaxed. 

“It’s not my fault you eat so fucking slow,” he smirks. And really, it’s more of a smile than a smirk. But she can’t bring herself to think of Mickey smiling, because it doesn’t fit. It might make less sense than anything else.

“There’s more pancakes on the counter if you’re still hungry,” Fiona mentions, raising a knowing eyebrow. And the fact that Fiona was allowing Mickey’s presence made Debbie all the more confused. She could barely stand the sight of Mandy in the house, but here she was offering Mickey seconds on breakfast.

“Nah, I’m good,” he mutters, his cheeks reddening just slightly. 

“You coming into work today?” Ian asks, swallowing a mouthful of food. 

“Yeah, I guess. Better than dealing with Joey’s bullshit at home,” he shrugs. There’s something unreadable in Ian’s eyes as he nods.

It makes sense because Fiona had explained to Debbie that Mickey and his brother had gotten into a fight after their father’s funeral. She had explained that Ian was nice enough to offer Mickey the extra bed in the boy’s room, and that was why he was staying the night. It all made sense. But at the same time it really didn’t. 

Mickey hadn’t just stayed the night. It was more than that. Because, he had shuffled down the stairs with Ian, playfully bumping each other into walls. He had mumbled sheepish thanks when her brother had handed him a plate and nudged him towards the table. He had scooted his chair closer to Ian’s and away from everyone else, only settling when the redhead had offered him a small smile. 

It was unnerving, like watching a shark sprout legs and walk on land.

“What about me Mick?” Mandy announces, leaning against the wall as she reaches the bottom of the stairs. She’s wearing one of Ian’s longs sleeve T-shirts and not much else. “You gonna hide from me too?” she smirks, lips stretching like a razor. 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he grunts, turning in his chair and eying her skeptically. 

“I’m talking about you and Ian,” she practically snarls. This is a side to Mandy that Debbie has never seen, and maybe the only side that Fiona ever has. “And the fact that the two of you are sleeping together,” she bites.

The kitchen falls silent and the sound of Carl screaming at his video game in the other room is the only muffled noise. Looking around anxiously, Mickey slowly gets to his feet. He dumps his plate into the sink and wipes his hands anxiously against his shirt.

“Debbie, go to the living room,” Fiona finally says. Her eyes dart around the kitchen as though she’s trying to figure out who to jump in front of, who to protect. 

Mickey is slowly edging closer to the door, and Ian is all wide eyes and parted lips. Debbie has no idea what’s going on, but she sure as hell wants to find out. “It’s my day to do the dishes,” she offers weakly. 

“Now Debs,” she says harshly. And it isn’t Fiona’s words or tone that propels her towards the living room. It’s the look in Ian’s eyes. He’s scared and hurt, and hopeful all at once. She doesn’t want to look at him like that, she can’t. “Mandy what are you thinking blurting that out while she was in the room,” Fiona continues when Debbie ducks into the other room.

She slips behind a wall but presses her ear close so that she can still hear. “So I take it this isn’t news to you then. Am I the only idiot out of the loop?” Mandy spits.

“Are you still drunk?” Mickey says, voice betraying his confidence. 

“Where’s Lip?” Ian asks. And she knows that Ian will always look for Lip when his world is in shambles. She knows it because it’s the same way that she looks to Fiona, and Carl looks to Ian. It’s the same way that they all look to each other. 

“He’s pretending to be asleep so he doesn’t have to lie to my fucking face anymore!” she yells. 

Muttered curses sound quietly before Ian speaks. “Mandy just calm down, okay? You’ve had a rough couple of days,” he says.

“Do not treat me like a child Ian. You’re supposed to be my best fucking friend,” she hisses.

“I am your best friend.” He sounds sad and defeated.

“Then why are you lying to me?” she asks. 

“Jesus, it’s too early for your delusions Mandy,” Mickey speaks up. And if she didn’t know better, Debbie would say there was something protective in his tone, in the way that he had taken the attention off of Ian. There was something fearful there too, something ready to bolt.

“Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up! You pieces of shit, tell me the goddamn truth!” she screams.

“Fucking Milkovich’s,” Fiona mutters. 

“Mickey…” Debbie can’t see Ian, but she imagines that his green eyes are pleading. She doesn’t know much about sex, or love for that matter, but she knows about hurt. And she can hear it in everyone’s voices as they tiptoe around something painful and real.

“Fuck. I’m not fucking doing this,” he says.

“Mickey, come on.” 

“No, screw this. I’m out of here,” he scoffs.

“We can have this conversation here or we can have it at home, with Joey and Iggy. You’re choice Mickey,” Mandy says.

There’s a long pause before Mickey finally agrees. “Fine,” he whispers.

“Fine? That’s it, that’s all you’ve got?” she snaps.

“What else do you want?” he bites.

“I want to hear you say it. Tell me you’ve been fucking my best friend behind my back!” she demands. 

“Yeah, we… yes. Okay, are you happy?” he says sounding wrecked.

“Thrilled,” she breathes harshly. 

“Now you know the big secret.” Mickey’s words spill from his lips like venom. “But don’t think it means you know a fucking thing,” he finishes bitterly. A door slams loudly and somebody curses. 

The sound of her own frantic breathing fills her ears. She tastes syrup on the tip of her tongue and she remembers the way that Mickey and Ian had been smiling. She’s glad she can’t see their faces now, because she knows they aren’t anymore. And when she thinks about her brother being with Mickey Milkovich, it doesn’t make sense. But it a way that reminds her of stolen nursing home patients and blackmailed flour sifters, it kind of does. 

Debbie still doesn’t know what happened really, but she’s pretty sure it isn’t over.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m the same person I’ve always been. The same person you study with, and sneak into movies with, and get high behind the bleachers with at school. I’m still me, okay? I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Mickey. But I didn’t want to fuck things up because- because I really care about him.”

Mandy feels breathless with anger.

She barely registers Fiona muttering that she’s going to give them some time alone, squeezing Ian’s shoulder as she passes. All she can hear is the echo of Mickey’s words, followed by the slamming of the kitchen door. He hadn’t even spared a single glance back as he had rushed away, anxious and cornered. Ian’s eyes were glued to the door, where he had last seen Mickey. He looks almost haunted as he blinks methodically. Mandy doesn’t think she’s ever seen him look so scared or so strong. 

“What about you, do you have anything to say?” she breaks the silence. He looks at her startled, almost as though he had forgotten she was there. The anger inside of her burns white hot and she grits her teeth together so hard she thinks they might crack.

Regaining his composure, Ian paces forward and backwards several times. “Mandy, I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you. There were so many times that I almost did,” he says. 

“But you didn’t,” she bites. She feels something manic and frantic buzzing inside of her. 

“I didn’t feel like it was my place. You’re Mickey’s sister and it wasn’t just our relationship we were hiding, it’s his… it’s him, you know?” he struggles to explain. 

“He’s gay,” she says, testing the words cautiously. She can’t bring herself to say his name yet and connect the dots out loud. It doesn’t sit right in her stomach. It isn’t because he’s gay, it’s because he’s her brother, the brother she thought she knew the best. But, it turns out she never really knew him at all. 

“I think he’s still having some trouble coming to terms with it,” he mentions. 

“Well duh, he’s a Milkovich. My father must be rolling in his grave,” she chuckles bitterly. And if there was a silver lining to the whole shit storm, it was that her father was screaming bloody murder in the pits of hell. 

Ian averts his eyes and clears his throat. “Probably,” he says. 

She narrows her eyes; she can tell that he’s keeping something more from her. She doesn’t push because there are other things she needs to know first, important things. 

“How long?” she asks.

His eyes widen. “What?”

“How long have the two of you been sleeping together,” she grits.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. 

“It matters to me Ian. So tell me how fucking long!” she screeches. 

Taking a deep, stuttering breath, he finally answers her. “Off and on maybe, maybe two and a half years,” he says. 

“Fuck you,” she spits, turning on her heel to walk away.

“Mandy!” He grabs her arm to stop her but she rips it away harshly and shoves him backwards.

“No, fuck you Ian,” she yells, jabbing a finger in his direction. “Almost three fucking years? That’s practically as long as we’ve been friends.” 

“It was never supposed to last, okay. It was just supposed to be a convenient fuck,” he says. 

“What about Kash, and Ned?” She blinks stubbornly. It doesn’t matter how long she has to argue with him, she’s going to get answers.

“It’s complicated. Mickey was in and out of juvie and just, I don’t know…” He looks down and Mandy focusses all of her energy on glaring holes into his head. 

“So, the time you came with me to pick him up from juvie, you didn’t give a shit about trying to protect me. You just wanted to see him,” she hisses. 

A million memories flash through her mind. Suddenly she feels stupid, so fucking stupid. Every prolonged trip to the bathroom, every barley there inside joke, it all slaps her in the face. And it stings. 

“It wasn’t like that,” Ian hurries to say.

“Was our entire friendship some fucking ploy to get into my brothers pants?” she asks, hurt aching in her chest. The biggest part of her knows that it wasn’t. But she can’t help the part that worries it was. The same part that thought for a moment Ian was lying about being gay, because maybe he thought she was ugly or dirty. The part that sometimes kissed him on the lips just to see if he would still let her; he always let her. 

“How can you even ask me that?” His eyes flash with hurt. For a moment she feels guilty, but she doesn’t have room for guilt. There are already too many feelings swirling in her gut.

“Because I feel like I don’t even know you right now Ian!” She stomps her foot childishly. She knows that Ian would laugh or tease her about it if she was angry with anyone other than him.

“I’m the same person I’ve always been. The same person you study with, and sneak into movies with, and get high behind the bleachers with at school. I’m still me, okay? I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Mickey. But I didn’t want to fuck things up because- because I really care about him.” His eyes glitter with something unfamiliar and a dozen more questions jump to her mind. “And I get that you can’t understand that because I haven’t talked to you about it. But I kind of have, he’s the guy I was seeing after Kash and- just, you didn’t know it was him. But I told you about him, and I wanted to tell you more. You are my best friend Mandy. If you want to be mad at me, fine. But just know that you’re my best fucking friend,” he finishes.

She stares at him silently with tears swimming in her eyes. After a moment she shakes her head and blinks them away. “I need some time, to like take all of this in or something. I’m not mad, I’m- okay no, I am mad. But mostly I’m confused so, I’ll talk to you later I guess,” she sighs. 

“Okay,” he nods unsurely. 

“Shit. You’re still my best friend ass hole. You just suck right now,” she reaches forward to shove him. He smiles hesitant but bright, and her lips twitch in return. 

She doesn’t want to share him with anyone, especially anyone in her family. Her family was fucked, and Ian was her safe place. They were supposed to be separate. Now they were bleeding together, staining her life. It made her want to scream and kick, to make someone bleed the way her life was bleeding. But there was already enough pain to go around, and more wouldn’t help anything. 

It’s hard because Mandy doesn’t want to share Ian but, she doesn’t want to lose him either.

. . .

Sometimes Mickey feels like he’s bleeding to death. 

No one knows how to make it stop, so no one will to go anywhere near him. In case it’s contagious, in case his fucked up excuse for a life will somehow attach itself to them. They all just watch him bleed, and Mickey acts like he doesn’t care. He pushes through everyone and lets the blood drip everywhere. 

He feels like everyone is staring at him. No one knows what to say to him, or how to look at him. They stare until they can’t take it anymore, until they can’t watch someone bleed to death any longer. And then, they look away, pretending that he was never there. So Mickey yells and he punches. He causes a scene so that they can’t ignore him, can’t look away. If he’s going to stand there and bleed in front of all those people, then they’re going to witness every second of it.

Ian is the first person Mickey has ever wanted to look away. He’s also the only person that refuses to. It doesn’t matter how much he bleeds, or yells, or punches. Ian won’t look away. He just pushes closer, like maybe the blood attracts him, or maybe he doesn’t notice it at all. It’s hard for Mickey to understand, and even harder for him to accept. But he’s trying, he’s really fucking trying.

“Fuck!” he growls, kicking the side of his bed. Because no matter how hard he tries, things eventually go to shit.

Every time he feels like he can finally breathe, the wind gets knocked out of him again. He hates that Mandy knows about his relationship with Ian. And he hates that he was right about that hostile, hurt look that he knew would be in her eyes. 

“Hey douche bag, what’s your problem?” Iggy swings the door open, a cigarette hanging from his chapped lips. 

“Your face,” Mickey grunts. 

“Where’d you stay last night?” he asks. 

“Some skank's dump. I don’t fucking know. I was wasted,” he shrugs. 

“Nice. Hey, you wanna help me knock some heads together later. Some pricks down by fat Angie’s house owe me money.” He plucks the cigarette from his mouth and squints as the smoke floats up towards his eyes. 

“Sure,” Mickey nods. Beating the shit out of someone actually sounded like a great idea. He needs to hit something solid, needs to feel the crunch of flesh against flesh. 

“Cool. Later fag,” he grins, swinging the door shut. 

Mickey deflates onto his bed, dropping his head into his hands. When he had first started fucking around with Ian, it had almost felt like another universe. They had been in this bubble together, and nothing could penetrate that sanctuary. There was the real world, and then there was his time with Ian.

But little by little, people began poking holes in their comfort, learning their secrets and unraveling the truth. Now he felt like Ian was the only thing that was real. The rest of the world was an act that he put on, motions that he continued to go through.

He’s not sure which part he hates more, or if he just hates all of it the same. But fuck if there wasn’t something like love mixed in with every part that Ian touched.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sometimes you can’t keep people apart. Sort of like magnets,” Fiona explains.

Fiona is perpetually tired. 

Dark circles stain underneath her eyes and her back creeks with exhaustion. But when Debbie shuffles into the kitchen late in the afternoon, Fiona’s eyes perk up. Her red hair is as frizzy as her body language is calm. 

She leans against the counter and Fiona can see the wheels turning in her head. She wants to ask a question but, she doesn’t quite know how to word it. “How come Mickey is only nice to Ian and not anyone else?” she finally wonders. Her lips purse curiously and her eyes blink with unwavering determination. 

“They’re friends Debs,” Fiona shrugs. Turning away, she dips her hands into the soapy water of the sink and begins scrubbing a plate carefully. 

“Lip used to say that Mickey Milkovich doesn’t have any friends,” she mentions stubbornly. Blowing a piece of hair from her sweaty forehead, Fiona turns to look at her. 

They stand almost eye to eye, Debbie having sprouted several inches in recent months. Her face has thinned some, and her eyes had lost that naive sparkle. Watching Debbie grow up was different than watching the boys. It wasn’t better or worse, it was just different. 

“I guess Ian is the exception,” she says. And as much as she’s trying to placate Debbie, she’s also telling the truth. As far as she can tell, Ian is Mickey’s only real friend.

“Do you think it’s a good idea for Ian to be friends with Mickey?” she asks.

“Probably not,” Fiona snorts.

“Then how come you let him?” she asks, worry wrinkling her brow.

“Ian’s a big boy. Besides, sometimes you can’t keep people apart. Sort of like magnets,” she explains, fishing through soapy water until her fingers catch the rim of a glass. 

“Ian and Mickey are like magnets?” Debbie repeats hesitantly. 

Fiona opens her mouth to correct herself or offer more of an explanation but, her mind runs blank. She thinks maybe that’s the best way to describe them. It didn’t make the most sense but, neither did Ian and Mickey.

“It’s hard to understand kiddo.” She smiles comfortingly and pulls her hands from the sink, shaking the water droplets away. 

“Ian’s gay, right?” She poses it as a question but Fiona can see the answer written in her eyes. Debbie had always been a smart, observant kid. Even so, it surprises her to hear the words spill from her lips so casually. 

She pauses, wiping her hands with a towel and twisting it nervously. “You were listening in? You know you’re not supposed to eavesdrop,” she says, evading the question completely. 

“Mandy was yelling.” Her eyebrows rise to the red of her hairline and she continues to stare expectantly. 

“How much did you hear?” Fiona sighs. 

“Enough to know that Ian and Mickey have sex together,” she says, placing a hand on her hip. Fiona flashes ahead to her teenage years, groaning internally. “Did you already know?” 

“Yeah, but it’s none of our business,” she admits. Ian’s sexuality was a subject that Fiona never really figured out how to broach. She wanted to support him, but she didn’t want to push him. She let him set his own pace, come to her in his own time. Sometimes she wondered if that was the right thing to do. Ian had always been private and sensitive. He had landed smack in the middle of six big personalities and Fiona felt like she owed him whatever space or time he needed. 

“How come it was a secret?” Debbie asks. 

Shrugging weakly, Fiona feels a pang of sadness in her heart. She understood why Ian and Mickey kept their relationship a secret, and she knows that they have to continue to keep it a secret. “I think he was just scared, you know? Hey, you can’t tell anyone about this,” she mentions seriously. 

“Duh, I actually like Ian. I don’t want him to get shanked Fiona!” She rolls her eyes. 

“Shanked? Where do you hear this stuff?” Fiona snorts. 

A short chuckle snaps her head to the side. Ian is leaning against the archway between the kitchen and the living room. “She spends too much time hanging around Little Hank and Carl,” he calls, walking fully into the room. Fiona doesn’t remember hearing the door slam but he tended to be the quietest when it came to things like that. 

“Hey, how was work?” she asks, sending him a tight smile. 

“It was okay,” he nods. “Hey Debs, if you still want help with that book report we can work on it later tonight,” he mentions, opening the fridge and peering inside. 

Fiona watches Debbie watch Ian, but she still doesn’t see it coming when the smaller girl lunges forward and practically tackles him in a hug. He lifts his arms so that she can wrap her own around his waist, resting her cheek against his back.

“Thanks Ian,” she grins. “I love you.”

Eyes prickling with unshed tears, Fiona wills herself to remember the scene in front of her. The north side snobs could have their money because the Gallagher’s had something better. 

“Love you too Debs,” he mutters in confusion, turning his head slightly. She squeezes him once more before unwinding her arms and hurrying towards the stairs. 

“I’m gonna check on Liam,” she calls. 

Ian shuts the refrigerator as Debbie’s footsteps fade into the distance. “What was that about?” he asks, scrunching his eyebrows.

“She heard the conversation this morning,” Fiona answers honestly. “She knows about you and Mickey.”

“Oh,” he breathes. “That’s… uh, did she talk to you? Did she have like, any questions?” he scratches his head uncomfortably. 

“She had a few questions but, I think she gets it. It doesn’t change the way that any of us feel about you, you know that,” she says. 

“I guess. It’s just- I don’t know,” he mumbles, shrugging sheepishly. 

“Shut up and finish the dishes doofus,” she smirks, tossing the dish towel at his face. He catches it before it hits him in the forehead, eyes a little wide. 

As she walks passed him, he nudges her shoulder gently and lets out a loud laugh. Fiona thinks that it’s the best sound she’s ever heard.

. . .

Ian feels half asleep as he trudges up the stairs slowly.

His eyes are focused on his phone, willing it to ring. It had been hours since he last heard from Mickey or Mandy. Since their confrontation that morning they had scattered in separate directions, words unsaid hanging in the air. The lack of contact was making Ian anxious and unsure. As far as he and Mickey had come, and as solid as he and Mandy has always been, the Milkovich siblings were unpredictable. He had no idea what they were thinking or feeling, and it was driving him crazy. 

Finally his resolve breaks and he begins typing a message to Mickey. _‘Are you done freaking out yet or should I check back later?'_ He sends the message before he can hesitate for too long. 

The reply is quicker than he expects. _‘Fuck you. I aint freaking out.’_ He can practically hear Mickey’s voice barking the words, and it makes him smile. 

He types his next message as he knocks on Lip’s door. _‘You told me to get out of your life the last time I mentioned telling Mandy. Now she knows so…’_ Clicking send, he pushes the door open without invitation and slips inside.

“What’s up?” Lip calls distractedly. Leaning against the door frame, Ian feels his phone vibrate. He ignores it, too nervous to read the response. 

“So uh, thanks for the backup this morning asshole,” he smirks. 

Lip is rustling through a drawer, most likely looking for weed. He glances up and offers Ian his best innocent wide eyed stare. “What?” he says.

“You’re too smart to play dumb Lip.” He flinches as his phone vibrates again. Part of him itches to look at it, but another part has the urge to throw it against a wall before he can read something that will break his heart.

“Yeah, okay. Sorry,” he grimaces apologetically. “I was gonna warn you but you were sleeping when we got in last night and I didn’t wake up until like halfway through her tirade,” he explains. 

“So you decided to hide under the covers until it was over?” he scoffs.

“I usually just make things worse when it comes to Mandy anyway. Figured you had it covered,” he grins charmingly. And yeah, Ian loves his brother but sometimes he wants to smack him.

“I thought she was gonna chop my dick off,” he chuckles breathily. 

“Mickey wouldn’t have let her do that,” Lip smirks. He stops looking through the drawers for a moment and turns around to face Ian fully. “Seriously though, be careful with her. I think she’s more hurt than angry,” he adds. 

“I know. She feels betrayed,” Ian agrees.

“Not just that. She’s uh, kinda still in love with you,” he mentions casually.

“Shut up,” Ian says half-heartedly. 

“No. No I’m actually not kidding,” he laughs humorlessly. Goosebumps rise on Ian’s skin as he considers that Lip is being sincere. “I’m pretty sure the only reason she even started fucking me was because I’m the straightest version of you available.”

“That’s messed up man,” he replies dismissively. 

Ian has to dismiss Lip’s words, because he can’t deal with anything else right now. Especially something like that. He forces himself to think of goofy faces and screeching laughter, of all the things that let him know Mandy's his best friend. He focuses on those things because the other thing, the thing he can’t process, threatens to pull him apart from the inside out. 

“It really is,” Lip nods sympathetically.

For a moment Ian feels like he’s drowning. The tide of Lip's words pull him under and fill his ears with water. Lip is still talking but the rush of waves poor over whatever he’s saying. Sucking in a deep breath, Ian grips his phone like a lifeline. It isn’t until he gives in and opens Mickey’s two messages that he finally feels the air fill his lungs again.

_‘What’s done is done. No use crying about it.’_

_‘She won’t tell anyone so whatever.’_

He laughs quietly to himself, the release of emotion thrumming through his veins. 

“Please tell me you aren’t sexting with Mickey right now,” Lip blanches. 

Ian quickly types a message to Mickey, telling him that Debbie knows about their relationship. If anything would test his carefree attitude, it would be the idea of a little girl keeping their secret. “Our relationship isn’t just about sex,” he tells Lip, sending the message. 

“Alright, alright…” he holds up his hands in mock surrender.

It didn't matter that Lip didn't like Mickey, or that he didn't understand the relationship. Ian was his brother and that trumped everything. Growing up, Ian had been scared of a lot of things. But he had never been afraid of being alone. Having a brother meant that you never had to be alone. At least that's what it meant for the Gallagher boys.

Before he can say anything else, his phone rings. Nodding at his brother, Ian slips out of the room. Lip’s muffled teasing follows him into the hallway as he answers on the fourth ring. “Hey Mick,” he smiles.

“How the fuck does Debbie know?” he grunts in greeting.

“She heard Mandy this morning,” he explains. “You freaking out now?”

After a thick pause he finally answers, “I’m done sweating that shit. Too fucking tired man.” 

“You’re seriously okay with everything,” Ian asks.

“Yeah,” he sighs. He sounds tired and maybe a little anxious. But underneath it all, he does seem okay. “Look, I’m helping Iggy with something for a while. I’ll talk to you when I’m finished,” he adds after a moment.

“Okay. Don’t do anything stupid,” he teases.

“No promises man,” Mickey chuckles. 

There are a million things that Ian wants from Mickey, starting with words and touches but ending with that feeling of certainty that can't be explained. But he doesn’t need promises. He knows that promises can be broken in a way that feelings, real and raw, cannot. He knows that Mickey is trying, really and truly trying. The balance between giving in and giving up is fragile and terrifying. But Mickey is still trying. For Ian, that's enough.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he and Ian are finally alone, the redhead sucks in a deep breath and raises a shaky hand to his face. Mickey fights the instinct to flinch and lets him ghost his fingers across the battered skin. And if he leans into the touch it’s only because he’s too weak, and too tired to force himself not to need Ian.

Mandy is high as a kite when she hears what she thinks is a bird dying slowly.

She slaps her hand against the window only to realize that her phone is what’s making the shrill noise. Groaning in annoyance, she ignores the call in favor of sipping the almost empty beer in her hand. Her head lulls against the wall of her aunt’s extra bedroom as her phone begins to ring again.

“Shut up!” she yells, tossing the empty beer bottle to the floor. She forces herself not to look at the screen because she knows that if she does, she’ll give in and answer. 

It isn’t that she never wants to talk to Ian again. She just can’t do it yet, not until she can wrap her brain around everything that she had learned. The idea had been tickling her subconscious for days, but to actually hear Mickey and Ian confirm their relationship was something else entirely. Her entire world had been turned upside down, and she felt like she was the only one that had been shaken. Everyone else either knew about the relationship already, or didn’t seem to care. It made her itch with frustration because no one seemed to understand how she felt.

Her hopes and dreams of Ian whisking her away like a knight and shining armor were long gone. But that didn’t mean she wanted him to be her brother’s prince charming. It was hard to accept that Ian would never want her the way that she sometimes wanted him. But he wanted her in other ways, more important ways, so she could suck down her disappointment when she had to. Because even though Ian never touched her or kissed her, he did talk to her. They told each other everything, things they were too afraid to say even in the safety of their own heads.

Finding out that Ian wanted Mickey in the way that he would never want her had hurt. But finding out that he had kept something that important from her had torn her apart. She understood why he did it and she believed that he had honestly wanted to tell her. But her wounds were still too fresh. She needed time to heal before sucking down that pain and burrowing herself back into his world. 

“Fine…” she sighs, as her phone begins to ring for the third time in a row. “Hello?” she answers, not bothering to look at the name flashing across the screen.

“Mandy! Finally,” Ian greets, relief flooding his voice.

“What’s going on Ian?” she mutters. 

“Look, I know you’re still freaked out about everything, and you need your space. But Mickey was supposed to get in touch with me, and he’s out somewhere with Iggy, and I’m getting worried,” Ian rambles. 

“Okay?” Mandy scrunches her nose in distaste. “What do you want me to do about it?” she snaps.

“Have you seen or talked to either of them?” he asks, un-phased by her attitude.

“Either of who?” she asks.

“Mickey or Iggy, come on Mandy. I have a bad feeling,” he breathes. His voice is anxious and unnerved, something she’s unaccustomed to hearing from her level headed best friend. 

“No, I haven’t fucking heard from them. They’re probably fine, okay? Mickey probably just ditched you to go do another stupid thing with Iggy.” She rolls her eyes, reaching for a cigarette and lighter. 

“He’s not- look I know you might not believe this but, he’s not like that with me. We’re trying to make things work and he’s different. He’s trying,” Ian says. She takes a long drag of her cigarette and lets him wait for a tense moment.

“If you actually think you can change Mickey, I feel sorry for you,” she spits. 

“It’s not about changing him,” he says.

“Oh yeah, then what’s it about?” she challenges, watching the smoke curl to the ceiling.

“I love him,” Ian admits. “And I know he cares about me too, so just- just let me know if you hear from either of them,” he continues shakily. 

Licking her lips, Mandy feels the dry expanse of her mouth and throat constrict with words she can’t push out. She hears the sincerity in his voice, feels the desperation in his plea. And it isn’t as if she’s ever been able to deny him anything anyway. 

“Yeah, okay,” she agrees quietly. She hangs up before he can say anything else. 

She doesn’t mean to cry, but suddenly she is. Hot, salty tears slither down her face. She reaches up to wipe them away but more follow, relentless in their path. Curling her knees to her chest, she gives up and let’s herself sob quietly into her hands.

Because maybe she doesn’t need to push the pain down, maybe she needs to let it out and finally move forward.

. . .

Mickey doesn't notice the third guy until it’s too late.

The idiot that was late on his payment is quivering in Iggy’s grip, and Mickey has a fist full of another guy’s shirt. He’s buzzing with energy, and he doesn’t notice the third guy until he’s right behind him. Then suddenly his ears are ringing and the world is dull around the edges. The concrete rises to meet the lead of his body, and everything goes black.

“Shit, fuck. Mickey would you wake up already, you’re heavy as fuck!” Iggy curses. 

When he blinks his eyes open, his body feels heavy and thick with haze. But his head feels light, like it could float away. The sky is almost completely dark when his vision clears of blotchy white spots. 

“What the fuck…” he groans, wincing when Iggy pushes him to carry most of his own weight. They’re close to home, familiar fences and chipped paint guiding their way. 

“Good job getting pistol whipped Mouse,” Iggy smirks, slapping the hand around his shoulder against his back. Mickey stumbles at the childhood taunt but his stomach settles at the warm tone of his brother’s voice. 

“Hey, there was only supposed to be two guys. If you were the one standing near the door I’d be dragging your ass home,” he argues. His head throbs with every syllable, but he shoves it down and stomps it away with each step.

“I definitely would’ve heard him coming,” he says.

“Yeah right, you’re full of shit,” Mickey snorts weakly. He slows as the Gallagher house comes into view, the littered lawn pulling him forward like a beacon. “This sucks man. Just drop me off at the Gallagher’s dump. Mandy’s probably slutting it up with one of them anyway. She’ll at least make sure I don’t drown in my own vomit or something.”

“You’re such a pussy,” Iggy laughs. “Can’t even make it the rest of the way down the street,” he adds, helping Mickey across the road and towards the rundown house. 

“Whatever. That wannabe nurse lives next door. She’ll probably have some good painkillers for me to knock out with,” he mentions, ignoring the way his hands stop shaking at the thought of being with Ian. Painkillers would probably help, but Ian would help more. 

“It’s a good thing Mandy’s dick hopping over there. Doubt they’d even let you through the door otherwise,” Iggy chuckles, shifting Mickey’s weight to open the gate. 

“Nah, they’re all a bunch of bleeding hearts,” he says. They shuffle up the walkway and before they even reach the door, Carl swings it open with wide, excited eyes.

“Special delivery,” Iggy grins, shoving Mickey towards the railing where he can rest his weight. 

“Did you get shot again?” Carl asks.

“Does it look like I got shot again?” he snaps, wheezing as he trudges up the steps. 

“Yeah, right there!” he says, pointing at his nose. “Oh wait, that’s just your face!” he smirks, sticking his tongue out for good measure.

Iggy’s laughter rings from behind him and Mickey musters up the energy to turn and glare. Shrugging shamelessly, Iggy begins to walk backwards down the path. “I like that kid,” he calls. 

“Fuck off,” Mickey grunts. He shoves Carl aside and doesn’t bother turning around when he hears his brother’s laughter fade down the street. 

“Ian, Fiona… Mickey Milkovich is here and someone shot him!” Carl yells, closing the door behind them when they’re fully inside. 

“What?” Fiona shrieks, running into the living room in a short skirt and lacy bra. She has a brush in her hand and a streak of eyeliner smudged across her eyelid. 

“I did not get shot. Jesus Christ…” he swears. 

The stairs thunder as Ian jumps them all in one or two stretches of his long legs. His face is red and his eyes are wide when he comes to a graceless stop at Mickey’s side. “What the fuck? Are you okay?” he asks, out of breath.

“I was just kidding,” Carl says. 

“I’m fine. It’s just a few scrapes and bruises,” he explains, stopping short when Ian curls a hand onto his bicep and starts to lead him to the couch. “Seriously, it’s no big deal. My head hurts like a bitch though, and your house was closer so…” he trails off uncertainly. He isn’t good at accepting help, he’s even worse at asking for it. 

“Yeah, yeah, of course. I’m glad you came here,” Ian says, sitting beside him carefully. His eyes are mapping the plains of Mickey’s face, taking inventory of every inch. The older boy shifts, uncomfortable with the attention and scrutiny. 

“Carl, why don’t you go next door and get V. Tell her to bring some painkillers,” Fiona orders. Carl nods dutifully and rushes to the door. Mickey can only imagine how many times he’s been given similar tasks. “And you, you’re gonna sit still and let her check you out. Got it?” she says, turning to him.

“Sure, whatever,” he agrees.

“I’ll go get you some ice or something,” she mentions. 

When he and Ian are finally alone, the redhead sucks in a deep breath and raises a shaky hand to his face. Mickey fights the instinct to flinch and lets him ghost his fingers across the battered skin. And if he leans into the touch it’s only because he’s too weak, and too tired to force himself not to need Ian.

“I thought I told you to not to do anything stupid,” Ian says quietly. 

“No promises, remember?” he smiles slightly. 

He stiffens when Ian clears his throat and drops his hand. But he quickly let’s it fall to Mickey’s knee, fingertips pressing down slightly. The pressure grounds the older boy and keeps him from regretting his decision to come there. He feels warm and solid. He knows that no matter how heavy his limbs are or how light his head is, he won’t hit the ground again, and he won’t float away.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It feels like a cross between and apology and a thank you, but there aren’t any complaints so Mickey figures that it’s okay. He’s not great with words but he can love Ian with is mouth, and his hands, and his body.

When Ian was twelve, Lip gave him a new baseball glove. 

It wasn’t really new, but it was new to him, and it was broken in perfectly. His old glove had been falling apart into tattered pieces, but he had known better than to ask for a new one. Lip had noticed without him saying a word, found some poor unsuspecting soul and swiped it for him. They never talked about it, never acknowledged it out loud. Lip had just tossed the glove onto Ian’s bed and asked him what time his game was. 

The thing was, Lip didn’t even like baseball. He took bets and kept stats, but he thought the game itself was boring. He used to complain loudly if Ian wasn’t on the field or up to bat, and he’d dozed off mid game more often than not. 

Ian knows that Lip doesn't like Mickey either. But when he had walked into the kitchen and found Veronica poking and prodding at him, he’d shuffled over to Ian and lowly told him to take his room for the night. 

Later, when the women stop fussing and send them upstairs, it’s awkward. When they first close the door, they’re left surrounded by all of Lips things and none of their usual comforts. But as soon as they shrug off the tension and strip down to their boxers, something familiar seeps into the air. It’s a position they’ve been in too many times to counts, half naked and full of bruises. 

Mickey collapses onto his stomach, face buried in a pillow, while Ian stares uncertainty. After a moment, he grunts for the redhead to lie down, reaching a hand out in invitation. Ian complies of course, how could he not. He eases onto the bed and stretches onto his back, eyes glued to the water stained ceiling above. 

He wants to be able to just touch and be touched back, for the silence to settle in his mind the way it settles in the empty room. He can't shake off all the fear from earlier though, still remembers the way his heart had hammered at the sight of Mickey’s battered form. Something terrible and threatening had crushed against his chest then, smothering him. Even with Mickey safe and whole beside him, he still feels like he’s catching his breath. 

The older boy has been solid and mostly silent, not offering much explanation. He had been compliant in letting Ian wipe the blood and dirt from his skin, absorbing the gentle pressure of his fingers instead of pulling away. It isn’t the answer that Ian is hoping for, but it’s something. 

“There was only supposed to be two guys. Didn’t see the third guy coming,” Mickey eventually mutters. He rolls onto his back and lets Ian press against him, knocking their hands together hesitantly. From the glow of the streetlight outside of Lip’s window, Ian can just make out Mickey’s silhouette. “Was a stupid mistake…” he adds quietly. 

“I was worried when you didn’t call,” he says. 

“No point in worrying about me. My heads too damn hard to break and we both know I can take a bullet no problem,” he smirks lightly. He slides his fingers against Ian’s experimentally, fitting them into the spaces. 

“I’m serious Mick. You gotta start being more careful. You act like- fuck… never mind,” he sighs, his eyes still focused straight ahead. 

“No, what were you gonna say?” Mickey demands.

“Just, sometimes you act like it doesn’t matter what happens to you. Like it’s not a big deal,” he says. “But it is a big deal. To me, okay? I uh, I love you. So…” he trails of, his breathing shallow and hot. 

He’d always sort of thought he’d end up blurting it out in a fit of rage or passion. But that isn’t the case when he pauses, bouncing the words through his head, and decides to take the leap. Mickey doesn’t react the way he expect either. 

“I know,” he says, his voice trembling with something Ian can’t shake. 

Fitting their hands together more solidly, Mickey grips his fingers with purpose. He turns on his side, tugging Ian until they’re spooning. The hot burn of flesh presses against his hands, but he can’t pull away. He curls up around Mickey and chances a kiss to the back of his head. 

He never expected Mickey to say it back, didn’t really expect him to keep from running to be honest. But he thinks that maybe Mickey is accepting it, taking it in and letting it stay. It’s more than he expected and even if it wasn’t, it’s enough. 

. . . 

Mickey wakes Ian up with a blow job.

It feels like a cross between and apology and a thank you, but there aren’t any complaints so Mickey figures that it’s okay. He’s not great with words but he can love Ian with is mouth, and his hands, and his body. 

“You wanna shower?” the redhead asks. His face is flushed and he’s so fucking gorgeous that Mickey wants to punch him. “I’ll even the score,” he adds, smiling when he glances at Mickey’s crotch. 

“I’m always down for your mouth on my dick Fire-Crotch,” he grins. And truthfully, he’d probably agree to just about anything Ian asked at that moment. Because his eyes are doing that stupid sparkling thing, and the way the light is coming through the window makes the freckles on his shoulders stand out. 

"Let's go then," Ian says, pulling Mickey up and off of the bed with ease.

They stumble to the bathroom, knocking into walls too much and laughing too loudly. The hot spray of water swallows Mickey’s moans as Ian swallows him. He doesn’t last long. He’s been right on the edge since Ian said those three words the night before, surprisingly turned on by how fucking fearless he’d been. The only thing that had stopped Mickey from pinning him to the bed and falling into his skin had been the overwhelming urge to run. He had fought against every cell in his body to stay still, anchoring himself in place with Ian’s hand in his own. 

It isn’t about how he feels, it’s about everything else. So he can’t say it back, not yet. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, pulling Ian up as the taller boy licks the corn of his mouth. He grips his arms to steady himself. “Whoever said laughter was the best medicine or whatever never had you suck their dick,” he continues. 

Ian snorts out a chuckle and pulls him closer. “Your head’s doing better?” he asks, reaching up to rub a wet hand against the side of his face.

“Yeah, like I said, it’s nothing…” he shrugs. He tilts his face up for a kiss, slipping his tongue inside Ian’s mouth right away. He spells the words he can’t say in licks and sucks, and sharp bites. 

They pull apart when a loud knock shakes the door. “Hurry the fuck up,” Lip yells. “We’re too poor to waste hot water on butt sex,” he adds.

“Don’t worry. We used your bed for that,” Ian calls back, turning off the water and reaching for a towel. He tosses it to Mickey and grabs another one for himself. 

“I’m gonna send Carl your way the next time he asks about gay wieners if you don’t wash my fucking sheets ass wipe,” he warns.

“Yeah, yeah, now leave us alone. We’ll be out in a minute,” Ian said, shaking the water from his hair. Lip’s muffled response is lost in the string of curses Mickey lets out when the water from Ian’s hair slaps against his face.

“Hey, watch it!” he whines. 

"My bad," he smirks.

Grinning, Ian shakes out his hair again, purposefully splashing water in Mickey’s direction. The ex con grabs his waist and pushes him against the sink. He means to be rough and forceful but he ends up laughing at the dopey look on Ian’s face. And shit, he loves him. He loves him so much it hurts. He wants to say it out loud but the air is sucked out of his lungs and he can’t do anything but stare.

“What?” Ian asks, his smile faltering.

Mickey swallows, digging his fingers into Ian’s sides. “I- what you said last night, I feel, I mean I…” he stumbles over his words and looks down nervously. Ian cups his neck, running his thumb along the damp skin comfortingly. 

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says. “And I won’t say it again if it makes you uncomfortable. I just had to say it once,” he explains. 

“It was okay, hearing you say it. It wasn’t so bad, and I don’t know. I uh…” His eyes jump around the room, resting on Ian when he squeezes his neck gently. 

“You don’t have to say it back Mick. I wasn’t expecting you to,” he repeats.

“Well fuck you,” he snaps, scrunching his eyebrows. 

“Jesus, I just meant that I didn’t say it so you would say it back. I said it because I wanted to. That’s all,” he says calmly. 

Mickey chews on his lip for a moment, blinking hard and fast. “I’m gonna say it back,” he finally says. “Not right now cause’ you’re annoying the shit out of me. But, some other time, when I feel like it. So you and your expectations can suck it Gallagher,” he finishes. 

“Okay,” he grins, big and bright. 

"Stop it," he says.

Ian's mouth twitches knowingly. "Stop what?"

“Stop smiling so much,” he grunts, moving his hand to spread it over Ian’s face playfully. 

The wet lick of a tongue makes Mickey reel his hand back and glare. “You like it,” Ian says, lips still spread wide.

“The fuck I do,” he grunts, shoving his shoulder gently. They both know he’s lying but, the pretense is habit and it feels safe. 

"You like it," Ian says again. He doesn't bother arguing.

If Ian doesn’t know that he loves him by now, then Mickey thinks he’s an idiot. Because he’s pathetically sure he’s obvious about it. And even if he wasn’t, he’d basically just stuttered out the confirmation. It wasn’t as terrifying or life altering as he’d thought it would be. But Ian seems happier, steadier in the way that he reaches for Mickey.

Telling someone you love them isn’t half as scary as loving them in the first place. So, Mickey can probably deal with it. He can make himself say it eventually. Because even though he’s not good with words, Ian still deserves to hear them.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She knows that Mickey’s tough guy act is mostly just that, an act. Mandy would bet that he loves letting someone else take control for a bit, as long as it’s someone he trusts. And she’s starting to see that if Mickey really trusts anyone, it’s probably Ian.

Lip is good at being a big brother.

When people tell him how smart or clever he is, it rolls right off of his shoulders. It’s no secret that he’s intelligent, but he doesn’t think he’s particularly good at being intelligent. He doesn’t use his mind the way that he knows he should. There’s no pride in his intelligence. He likes knowing things and having answers, but it doesn’t fill any sort of emptiness. It's just facts, numbers and words, things he knows. It doesn't mean anything.

When he was fourteen, after Ian had come home fighting tears and mumbling about ass hole teachers, Fiona had told him he was a good brother. All he had done was sneak Ian a beer and make crude remarks until they both couldn’t help but laugh, loud and full. But later that night she had cornered him in the hallway, looked at him hard, and told him he was a good big brother. The comment hadn’t rolled off his shoulders the way most praise did. It stuck with him, sunk into his bones and filled some of the emptiness. It meant something. 

Ian was easy to take care of when they were younger. He didn’t ask for anything, and he was happy with just about everything. He still doesn’t ask for much, but now that they’re older that only makes things more difficult. Because, Lip can’t know the answers if he doesn’t even know the questions. And, there are always more questions than answers anyways. He’s sort of given up on being right when it comes to Ian. Now he just tries to be there. 

“Thanks for letting us use your room last night. We didn’t actually fuck in your bed by the way,” Ian assures him, leaning against the door-frame. The cotton of his sweatpants gather dirt on the floor, frayed and worn. 

“Good to know,” Lip says. He nudges his shoulder and tosses him a joint before digging through his pockets for a lighter.

“He did blow me in it this morning but…” The smirk on Ian's face stretches gleefully as he tucks the joint between his lips.

“Aw, come on! What did I tell you about that? I’ll listen to you talk about doing shit with guys, girls, monkeys, just not Mickey. Jesus,” he grimaces, clutching his lighter. 

The redhead chuckles as Lip leans forward and lights the joint for him. He inhales deeply, letting his eyes fall shut. “Fair enough,” he says. As he tilts his head back, there’s a content expression on his face, one that hasn’t been present in a long time.

“You guys are good though? I mean, blow jobs and shower sex aside, things are good?” he asks sincerely. 

“Yeah, we’re good. I think we’re finally on the same page,” he says, holding the joint out to Lip. 

Taking a puff, the older boy squints in consideration. “Really?” he asks.

“He’s trying, you know?” Ian licks at his lips and crosses his arms casually. 

“Hmm,” Lip hums around the joint. “Yeah, I guess I can see that. It’s kind of cute actually,” he teases lightly. 

“Fuck off asshole,” Ian laughs, loud and full. And Lip knows that he got this answer right this time. He’s still not sure what the question was, but the answer is right. 

"Mickey Milkovich, concerned and caring boyfriend," he teases. 

Ian shoves at his chest lightly. It’s familiar and it seeps into his skin, filling those empty spaces. The ones that he’s beginning to think were made just for his little brother. Because he doesn’t think it matters if he’s the genius in the family, it just matters that he’s a good big brother. It matters that he's there.

. . .

Mandy is hung-over. 

After Ian had called her the night before, she had begrudgingly let herself worry her way through a flask of gin. She knew that her brothers could take care of themselves, but shit still happens. People still die. And as much as she might bitch and complain, she didn’t really want them to die. Not Mickey and Iggy at least. 

There’s something to be said about perspective though, because Mandy’s drunken worry had untangled most of her anger. She still doesn’t understand Ian and Mickey’s relationship, but she doesn’t think that’s important. What’s between them is between them. Ian is still her best friend, and Mickey is still her asshole brother. Nothing has changed really, she just knows more now. And after a lot of alcohol and some literal purging, she thinks maybe she’s okay with that. 

So when Mickey walks through the door, slightly bruised, she looks up from the TV and offers him a small smile. “Hey,” he mutters, shuffling into the living room. His shirt is clean but his jeans are splattered with dots of dry blood. When she looks closer she recognizes the T-Shirt as one of Ian's. 

“I ran into Iggy when he was leaving this morning. He thinks we both stayed at the Gallagher’s last night or something,” she says. “Don't worry, I played along.”

“Am I supposed to thank you or something?” he asks. 

“Yes,” she snaps.

He scoffs mechanically and rolls his eyes. “Whatever…” he grunts. It's probably as close to a thank you or even an apology as she's ever going to get. 

“So, like when did you know you were gay?” Mandy asks abruptly. Her skin feels stretchy and tight all at once. She doesn’t know how to have this conversation with her brother, she just knows that she needs to have it. 

“No way. I’m not doing this,” he says. He turns around and walking towards his room.

“Wait just, please? Come on Mickey,” she begs softly. 

He pauses for a moment, then finally turns around and leans against the wall. “I don’t know,” he mutters. He looks around the room, anywhere but at his sister.

“Come on,” she urges again, letting go of her hesitance.

“I don’t know, okay? It’s not something I let myself think about a lot. I guess I didn’t really like banging girls. Not the way Iggy and Tony liked it. So I figured something was probably off,” he explains. He still refuses to meet her eyes but his voice is clear and steady.

“Who’s the first guy you ever screwed?” she asks. And even though it’s a little awkward and completely bizarre, Mandy kind of loves talking to Mickey like this.

“I don’t fucking remember his name. Some fag in juvie,” he shrugs.

“That makes sense,” she nods. “What about you and Ian though, I know he usually does the fucking. So, do you take it up the ass or what?” she grins. She already knows the answer. 

She knows that Mickey’s tough guy act is mostly just that, an act. Mandy would bet that he loves letting someone else take control for a bit, as long as it’s someone he trusts. And she’s starting to see that if Mickey really trusts anyone, it’s probably Ian. 

“None of your business bitch,” he grunts.

“That’s a yes,” she smirks. 

“That’s a fuck you,” he says. There’s no real heat behind his words, and his shoulders are relaxed in a way she can’t ever remember seeing before.

“Whatever,” she sighs. “Just be careful okay.” 

“Don’t worry. I’ll be gentle with your precious ginger prince.” He rolls his eyes, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a cigarette. He doesn’t light it, just twists and turns it in his hands.

“I mean with yourself too Mick. It’s kinda weird seeing you happy. But it’s kinda cool too. Like, watching a retarded pig fly or something,” she says. 

“Hilarious,” he deadpans.

She flips him off, fluttering her dark eyelashes sarcastically. “Don’t do anything stupid and mess it up,” she warns.

“Yeah, yeah…” he mutters. 

“Hey, he’s good in bed right? Like, I’ve felt his dick and it’s definitely above average big,” she mentions suddenly.

“What the fuck?” His eyebrows furrow together in surprise and confusion. 

“I mean, Lip knows how to use what he’s got but what he’s got isn’t all that impressive. And I figure, Ian’s always got some married dude chasing after him, and now you so… he’s probably a pretty great fuck, right? I’ve always wondered,” she rambles. 

“You’re a fucking nut case,” he says, shaking his head. “And when the hell did you feel his dick?”

“He’s seems like he’d care about your needs too. Not like some guys, just worried about getting themselves off,” she continues. 

“Okay, we’re done,” Mickey says.

“What?” Mandy grins.

“This is too weird,” he says, pushing off of the wall. 

“I bet he’s gives good head too. We had a contest with bananas once. It was too close to call,” she giggles, remembering. 

“Jesus Christ,” he groans.

Mickey hurries away, cursing under his breath. But, all Mandy can do is laugh to herself. It’s weird, and it’s kind of uncomfortable, but it’s also so completely ridiculous that she has to let go. She can’t hold on to the feelings of betrayal and heartache. Her best friend and her brother are happy together, it’s fucking bizarre but, it’s not as terrible as she had thought it would be. It’s not actually terrible at all.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You don't know any better when you live in a perpetual state of shit. But when something good slips through your hands, you'll always know what you're missing. Mickey thinks that's probably what scares him the most about this thing with Ian, the idea of losing it. The idea that it might be too damn good to be true.

Mickey’s hands are sweating but he’s not nervous. He’s not.

The Gallagher kitchen is empty for once, and Ian is sitting at the table reading a math text book. It's old and ratty, probably stolen or borrowed. Lip had given him some practice questions again, and to Mickey’s annoyance he was unwaveringly focused. To occupy himself, the older boy had swiped a pop-tart from the cupboard and was nibbling at it carelessly. It was some sort of berry flavor, too sweet and processed to pin point the specific brand. 

“Are you almost done?” he asks, swallowing a chunk of the generic pastry before setting it on the counter. Ian doesn’t answer and Mickey sighs impatiently. “Did you ever bang my sister?”

“Where the hell did that come from?” Ian chokes, looking up from his book in surprise. 

“She said something about touching your dick,” he shrugs.

“She’s grabbed me through my pants a few times, back before she knew I was gay,” he explains easily. He offers a small smirk before looking back down to the work in front of him. Mickey wants to scream.

“Oh,” he says instead. 

The clock on the wall taunts him while his stomach churns uncomfortably. He feels like he might vomit, admissions of love or chunks of pop-tart, he isn’t sure which. It’s been two days since Ian had said those three little words, and the weight of not returning them was sitting heavy in Mickey’s stomach. It isn’t that he feels obligated or guilty, because Ian doesn’t seem upset. In fact Ian seems happier than ever, like he’s free from all the lies and games. Mickey wants that too. He wants to stop lying and hiding, at least from Ian. 

“Gallagher…” Mickey clears his throat, forcing his voice to remain even. “Ian,” he tries again when the redhead continues to stare down at the book in front of him.

“One second. I just need to finish this page,” he mumbles, eyes annoyingly focused. 

It shouldn’t be a big deal, waiting a few extra minutes. But it’s taken Mickey years to work up the nerve to tell Ian how he really feels. Now that he’s ready, every second that ticks by makes him feel like he’s on the verge of exploding. 

He taps his fingers against the half eaten pop-tart in front of him. “I need to tell you something. It’s important.” 

“Hold on,” Ian mutters.

Mickey takes a deep breath but finds that his frustration is too overpowering to ease. He’s stubbornly impatient on a good day. He wants what he wants when he wants it. And right then, he wants Ian’s attention more than he’s wanted anything in a long time. He actually can't remember the last time he wanted something that didn't have to do with Ian. It's kind of pathetic, but it's true so he's learning to accept it. 

His fingers continue to tap anxiously before he finally picks up the pop-tart and throws it straight at Ian’s head. “Hey,” Mickey calls, as the pastry hits Ian on the side of his face.

The younger boy looks up in shock as it falls to the ground and breaks into scattered chunks. “What the fuck Mickey!” he snaps, mouth agape. 

“I’m trying to fucking tell you something!” he snaps defensively. 

Ian stands up, shoving his book to the side. “You just threw a pop-tart at my head!” 

“Yeah, because I’m trying to tell you that I love you, douche bag!” Mickey says. His voice is louder than he intends but he forces himself to leave the words where they are, in the open. He won’t take them back or cover them up.

“You…” Ian trails off, shaking his head in wonder. He walks towards Mickey intently, only stopping when he’s right in front of him. “You’re an idiot, you know that?” he says quietly, a small smile playing at his lips. 

“Fuck off,” he mutters nervously. 

“Such an idiot,” Ian says, grabbing his face and crushing their lips together. The kiss is full and hard, but Ian pulls back too soon for Mickey’s liking. “I love you too asshole,” he adds. 

“I know,” Mickey shrugs, smirking cheekily. Ian rolls his eyes and moves to pull away, but Mickey grabs his hips and holds him in place. “You wanna go to the Sox game this weekend?” he blurts. 

“You mean like, sneak in?” Ian asks, giving up on moving away and resting his hands on Mickey’s shoulders. 

“Nah, I guess Mandy blew some kid that scalps tickets. She got a couple and told me I could have them if I took you with me,” he admits. 

Ian bites his lip and plays with the fabric of Mickey’s shirt. “Like a date?” he wonders.

“She’s all gung ho about us being together now that she knows everything so, yeah. That’s probably what she meant,” he says.

“Do you want it to be a date though?” Ian pushes. 

“Jesus fucking Christ Gallagher! Who cares what we call it?” Mickey sighs. “It’s not like we can hold hands and skip to our Lou or anything.”

“I know but still…” he shrugs softly. 

“If you wanna call it a date then call it a date.” He rolls his eyes. “But I’m calling it a baseball game,” he adds.

“Okay,” Ian nods.

“Okay what?” he asks skeptically. 

“Okay, you can call it a baseball game,” he smiles. 

“Well, what are you calling it?” Mickey asks, suddenly uncomfortable with the idea of not knowing. He hadn’t really cared about all of that shit before. But now that Ian has gotten it into his head, it's grating at him. 

“Doesn’t matter what we call it, right? Who cares,” he says, eyes twinkling with mischief. And yeah, Mickey knows he’s fucking with him.

“Gallagher I- shit,” he chuckles. “I hate everything about you,” he continues lightly. 

Ian grins at that, full and beautiful. “No you don’t,” he says. “You love me.” 

Mickey opens his mouth to say something; he isn’t sure what because he knows he can’t even deny it anymore. But before he can try to bullshit an answer, Ian covers his mouth and kisses him soundly. 

“I think it’s time for a study break,” Ian says, lips sliding against Mickey’s jaw. He pushes his hands under his shirt, fingers leaving a trail of heat.

It’s not until almost two hours later that Mickey realizes how much better he feels without the words clawing at his insides. He’s lying in Ian’s bed, the redhead draped across him snoring lightly. His body is heavy with the weight of Ian’s limbs but he still feels lighter than ever. It doesn’t matter if the rest of the world still believes his lies, because now Ian knows the truth. 

He finally said it, and it felt good to say something he meant for once. 

“I love you,” he whispers to Ian’s sleeping form.

The younger boy wiggles sleepily and Mickey freezes, feeling like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. The words still feel foreign in his mouth, and there’s still a small part of him waiting for someone to laugh in his face. 

“I know,” Ian smiles sleepily. 

“Shithead, you were pretending to sleep?” he accuses. 

“No, I was asleep. But you woke me up with your poking,” he says, blinking blearily. Mickey looks down to see that the hand he has around Ian’s shoulder is fidgeting. Without even realizing it, he had been drumming his fingers against his pale sin. 

“Whatever man. I was bored,” he shrugs, debating whether or not to pull away. In the end he decides, fuck it, and maybe even moves a little closer. He’s already in too deep as it is; he figures there’s no turning back. 

“Do you wanna stay for dinner tonight?” Ian asks suddenly, lifting his head to look at Mickey.

“Not really,” he says.

“Fiona’s making spaghetti and its Carl’s night to do dishes. He’ll probably break a few on purpose so that he doesn’t have to wash them. It’s like dinner and a show,” he explains hopefully. 

“Sounds exciting,” he deadpans.

“Will you think about it?” he asks. His eyes are wide and stupidly endearing but, it shouldn't be enough to break Mickey's resolve. It is anyways. 

“I- fine, fuck. I kind of like spaghetti,” he mutters, like that justifies his compliance. 

“Yeah?” Ian grins.

“No one better stare at me or anything,” he warns.

“What about me?” Ian asks.

“Especially you, it creeps me out when you do that shit,” Mickey says, expression firm.

“Too bad,” he smirks. He raises himself up and swings a leg to straddle Mickey’s waist. 

The weight of his body is warm and solid, grounding Mickey and reminding him that it's real. Because sometimes when he's with Ian he thinks it's a dream, or a nightmare really. He'd have to wake up from it eventually, and ending something good is worse than living something bad. You don't know any better when you live in a perpetual state of shit. But when something good slips through your hands, you'll always know what you're missing. Mickey thinks that's probably what scares him the most about this thing with Ian, the idea of losing it. The idea that it might be too damn good to be true. But then Ian would touch him, rough and soft all at once, and Mickey would know it's real. Probably one of the only real things in his fucked up life. 

“We gonna go again? I hear the rugrats downstairs,” he says, shaking himself out of his thoughts.

“Are you really gonna stay for dinner?” Ian wonders, fingers doodling on Mickey’s skin.

“Are you deaf? I’m not gonna say it again,” he snaps without any real heat.

Ian smiles, eye’s knowing and bright. “That’s okay. Once was enough,” he says. And Mickey is pretty sure they aren’t talking about a dinner invitation anymore. 

“Twice,” he mutters. Because he said it fucking twice and he wasn’t gonna pretend he didn’t. Loving Ian had been kind of suffocating at first, when the words were all locked up and hidden away. But now that they're out in the open, where Ian can grab onto them and keep them, Mickey feels like he can breath.

“Yeah, I guess you did say it twice,” he practically giggles. It’s so ridiculously infectious that Mickey has to bite his lip to keep his snort at bay. 

“Jesus,” he sighs. “How the hell did I get stuck with you?”

“Dumb luck,” Ian says, leaning down and kissing him shortly. He presses his lips to Mickey’s cheek before pulling back and looking at him seriously. “You are stuck with me though, you know?” 

Mickey only nods and cups the back of Ian’s neck, pulling him forward until their lips meet. He knows what Ian is saying, but the truth is he’s never felt less stuck or more content in his entire life.


	20. Chapter 20

**5 Months Later**

. . . 

Ian stares from one rooftop to the next.

His feet shuffle against the concrete and he racks his brain for the right words. Mickey is sitting next to him, lazily sipping from a bottle of Jack. The rooftop is quiet and empty; it’s exactly where Ian wants to be while he silently searches for an answer. He’s found answers on rooftops before.

Swiping the bottle of liquid courage from Mickey’s grip, Ian takes a large gulp. He winces slightly, letting a drop slide down his chin. Breathing through the sting of the alcohol, he sets the bottle to the side and blinks away the sting in his eyes. He hates the anxious feeling twisting in his gut.

“Whatever you got to say, just say it man,” Mickey chuckles, looking at Ian knowingly. 

The redhead bristles, furrowing his eyebrows. He wonders when the other boy had learned to read him so seamlessly. “What?” he asks in surprise.

A lot had changed since Mickey had admitted his feeling and started opening up to Ian. They were the same dysfunctional idiots who were too stubborn for their own good. They still argued and pushed each others buttons. Ian was greedy, wanting more and more of Mickey every day. And Mickey was still scared, jumpy and defensive. But they shoved that all down, pulled each other closer and refused to run away. Being together was better than being apart, better than anything.

“You’ve been moody and weird all fucking day. Earlier when you blew me, you were sucking like my dick was going somewhere. Which I know for a fact it’s not. So what’s going on ass hole?” he says. He looks nervous, but he doesn’t avert his gaze the way he would have in the past.

“It’s nothing. I just- Lip talked to that professor he knows. He looked at my transcripts and shit, said I had a decent shot at West Point if I kept my grades up for the rest of the year,” he admits. He rushes the words, like they’re clawing at his throat and if he doesn’t get them out as soon as possible they’ll tear him apart. 

Mickey is quiet for a moment, his face doing nothing to betray his thoughts. “Well fuck, with all that studying you do, you better get in. I mean that’s the point, right?” He swallows hard.

“I guess,” Ian shrugs. “I just never really thought it would happen. Not really,” he adds.

“You still want it, don’t you?” he asks.

“Yeah,” he nods shortly. 

“Then why do you look like you’re about to take a dive over the edge or something?” Mickey asks. He looks like he’s trying to figure out whether to be angry or concerned. 

Ian looks down, picking at his jeans. “I don’t wanna leave everyone,” he mumbles. The haze of alcohol buzzes over him and he lets it lull his muscles until he slumps against Mickey just slightly.

“Everyone leaves eventually Gallagher,” he says.

“That’s not true,” he argues. 

“Come on, you know it is. At least you got a real reason to go. Your family will understand. Probably be so damn proud they throw a fucking parade. There are enough of you for one,” Mickey says. It sounds like he’s convincing himself, repeating words he’s gone over in his head a million times.

“I don’t know,” he sighs.

“Always knew you wouldn’t stay here forever. You’re too good for this dump. Everyone knows it,” Mickey says. 

There’s something thick and heavy in Ian’s chest when he looks at the older boy. It’s not unpleasant but it nags at him, pulling and tugging like the ghost of something forgotten.

“Mick…” Ian says softly. “Come with me.”

Blinking in surprise, Mickey’s lips twist shakily. “Fuck you man. I’m not gonna be your security blanket,” he mutters.

“You wouldn’t be. I just- I don’t wanna be away from you.” His voice is low and breathy. If the wind were a little stronger his words might get lost in its grip. 

“I’m not the guy that gets out of this shit hole. That’s you Ian.” The way he says his name makes Ian shiver and push closer.

“You could get out too,” he presses. 

“Just stop, don’t fucking do that. Don’t act like I got some big bright future ahead of me. I know what I am. It’s time for you to stop pretending I can be something else,” he snaps. His eyes are red around the edges and angry with hopelessness. 

“Fuck you Mickey,” Ian growls. He grabs his shoulder, turning him slightly and shaking him. “I’m not some naive little kid who believes in fairytales and happily ever after. I know exactly who you are, what you’ve done, and what you’re capable of doing. I still want you! Do you get that? I know who you are and I still want you.”

Mickey curses under his breath and shoves the palms of his hands against his eyes. Ian pulls them away roughly, leaning in until their faces are close enough that they can breathe in the same air.

“Shit,” Mickey mutters.

“You deserve to get out of here too. We can start fresh,” he whispers. “Come with me,”

“You really- fuck... Think there will be jobs and shit for me there?” he asks.

“We’ll figure it out,” Ian promises, heart beating a million miles an hour.

“So damn optimistic,” he chuckles.

Hearing the sound makes Ian’s heart stutter to a stop, it’s everything he ever wants. Mickey and his sneers, his grunts and complains, his laughter. It’s all Ian wants for the rest of his life.

“It’ll be good for us. It’ll be good,” he repeats. He tilts his face downward until he can catch Mickey’s lips with his own. They kiss softly, letting their lips level their emotions until they can breathe without their hearts beating in their throats. 

“Hand me the Jack,” Mickey mutters when they pull apart.

Ian reaches back and grabs the bottle. He pauses before handing it over. “That was a yes, right? You’ll come with me if I go?” he asks. 

“Give me the damn bottle.” He rolls his eyes, ripping the alcohol from Ian’s hands.

“You’re not even gonna say it once, are you?” Ian asks, a knowing smirk playing at his lips.

Mickey takes a large gulp of the golden liquid, not flinching at all when it burns in his mouth. “Say what? That you’re the most important thing in my life so, why the fuck wouldn’t I go with you? Nah, I’m not gonna say it. You can get that out of your head right now,” he smirks.

“It never even crossed my mind,” Ian grins.

“Yeah, okay. Asshole,” he mutters affectionately. He jostles their shoulders together, keeping close when they still. 

“Love you too Mick,” Ian laughs.

He knows Mickey will never be the kind of guy that says the words Ian used to think he needed to hear. But there are other ways he says what he feels, and Ian finally understands that. He knows what it means when Mickey shoves his shoulder only to steady him when he stumbles. He knows what it means when he scoffs in his face and bites the smile from his lips. 

Other people might not know who Mickey Milkovich really is, but Ian does. He knows that the man he loves is real and true. There are a lot of lies in Ian’s life, half-truths and secrets. Mickey used to be one of them but, not anymore. The truth had always been there between them. They’d just had to look for it, find it in each other. And now that they had, they were never letting go. 

They would never let go of each other.


End file.
